Situation Critical: Coloro Pluvia
by PsychoDirector
Summary: After a strange mission turns ugly, Raz is left alone, bleeding, and supposedly dead. However, it seems he's not the only one who wants revenge. There are secrets buried beneath the crimson snow, and it only took one night for them to start leaking out.
1. White As Winter

**_From the Desk Of Psycho Director-_**

**_Hello! Now, I know, a select handful of you are going, "What the CRAP, man!? What is this crap!? I was promised more of _Cheating Death 101_! Crap!" Now, might I remind you, first off, that this is not crap. Nay, I actually worked very hard on this, putting off irrelevent things such as homework and edjukashun to cater to you monkeys and your stylish dresswear. _**

**_Secondly, I am not abandoning my other lovechild of the 'Nauts. No again, CD101 actually has five (or was it four?) chapters all ready to go. They have their engines revved, their feet on the pedals, their faces set in a mask of determination, their collective fists clenched in anticipation of all of the epicness they have to bring... Then the racetrack said 'FU' and walked away in a glitchy mass of suck. That's a metaphor for the fact that my computer bloody well hates CD101. I don't know what's wrong with it. It'll eat other FUNfics like they're cheesy fries and butter... then spits out the crem de la crem like some picky French connesieur with a tummyache._**

**_I HATE YOU TOO, COMPY. D8_**

**_And I remind you thirdly that, in the time you have taken to read this far, your toast had started to burn. That sucks, man._**

**_So, until I manage to beat ol' compy into submission, here's one of the fics it didn't spit up at me. I actually like it a lot, aside from a few minor things I will point out when we get there, like a pessimistic tour guide with a cool hat._**

**_On the brighter side of things, I'm not sick anymore. 8D Mentally sick, yes, but that one has much less coughing._**

* * *

The room was dark that night, its only light source being the windows lining opposite walls, which allowed cutout views of pinprick stars and a glistening, silver moon. The moon was almost entirely full, but not quite, giving it a sort of oval shape. As bright as it was, the semi-round object cast the room in a pale blue-silver glow, the main beam of which fell directly from the skylights and shed a scale model of the windows' outlines against the floor, desks, and computers which lined the large space.

There were about twenty computers in all inside the room, all in neat rows of rectangular desks that would have been revealed to be wood in the proper light, but for now just looked a deep purple. Their polished screens appeared as liquid black at that period in time, not even humming as their powerless monitors collected dust.

Well, that is, all except for one.

The one in question was glowing a pure white, the color casting a medium-length mop of hair aboard an average-sided head into a silhouette. Lines of small-print text dotted the pallid color, like raindrops against a sidewalk just before a sudden storm. Most were small, bringing with them lines upon lines of HTML text, which would have seemed like absolute gibberish to anyone loony enough to be waltzing by so late at night.

(In fact, even as the figure pondered over the words, a lonely clock outside the hall dutifully moved its minute hand up, making the time an even eleven at night.)

The figure was a man by the looks of him, with a recently outgrown shock of hair and a body that was just a bit too short. He was by no means skinny, or at least not terribly so, but calling him fat would have been an out-and-out lie. By the standard definition, most would have considered him cute, in a rather scruffy sort of way. Not much could be seen by the small amount of light, but it was clear by the bags below his blue eyes that he hadn't slept in a while, or at least not well.

As the text continued to scroll up on the screen, writing itself as it went along, he reached for a small, porcelain bowl that sat beside the computer on the desk. His hands twitching very slightly, he pulled out a large, thin, ring-like fruit that glistened wet and slightly translucent in the light, aside from a few lines. It was almost three inches wide and only a fourth-inch thick, with a half-inch hole in the center. In other words, it was a piece of sliced pineapple.

"Alright, buddy, lets see what you've got on our guys," the man muttered, his voice giving away that he couldn't have been any older than sixteen, at best. The text had stopped flowing, to be replaced by a single, tiny pop-up. His mouse hovered over it, the tiny arrow tracing under the short statement. It read simply:

_One (1) matching file found. Open?_

_Yes/No_

The figure shoved the pineapple slice into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then clicked 'yes'.

* * *

It was cold. That was the best way to describe the snowy plains and pine forests of Nova Scotia. Granted, Agents Nein, Vodello, and Aquato, the infamous Whispering Rock Branch, had been expecting cold when the word 'Canada' first slipped into their briefing. They did not, however, expect so much of it could and would be crammed into one area, especially with harsh wind and snow that went up beyond their knees. Plus, if Sasha's predictions of the weather were right, a bad snowstorm was brewing rapidly in the gray, cloudy sky.

Sasha was wearing a leather coat eerily reminiscent of his famous black jacket, a snazzy dark green scarf, thin gloves, and black hiking boots. Milla was wearing a fashionable long red coat with minx-fur trim (irony, anyone?) and fluffy white earmuffs, but had neither proper gloves nor proper boots (though she did wear these cool, really shiny red boots and her usual white gloves). Raz thought coats were for sissies and went without, instead trusting his old dark jacket, green striped sweater, and aviator hat to keep him warm.

Milla and Sasha had to admit he was good at not whining; though they suspected he would crack soon.

"Brr… Someone should tell the sun to stop being so lazy and start doing its job!" Milla whined for them in her thick accent, wrapping her arms around her lithe frame. "I'm starting to know how a Popsicle feels."

"Aw, it's not that bad," Raz pointed out—more out of determination to prove to them that he wasn't cold than to assuage the older agent's bad temperament. "You haven't seen real cold since you've been to Lithuania."

"Calm down, people. We'll be arriving at the checkpoint shortly. Only a few more minutes' walk yet. Just be grateful that we haven't had to defend ourselves from enemy attacks." This time, it was Sasha who spoke. Of all three of them, he was the only one who seemed in any way optimistic, which was strange. Then again, he did have a very warm coat, and winters back home for him weren't exactly anything pleasant.

"Do we really have anything to worry about here?" Raz pointed out confidently, even as he slogged through nearly waist-high white powder. "All the bad guys, even if they are psychic, shun even the basic knowledge of it. It's like playing with cheat codes, honestly." He paused, then, as he hit a particularly soft spot in the snow and sunk to his navel. "…Agent Vodello, I'm stuck." Sasha sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. From behind him, Milla giggled at Raz's undignified position, then trudged over to the young agent.

"That's one of the things that worries me," Sasha spoke up, his voice nearly lost in the rising wind. Agent Vodello, meanwhile, slid her hands below Raz's arms, pushing them tight against his frame. Then, with a smile that was just a little too degrading, she lifted him up and out of the snowdrift like a small child (well, small_er_). After that, with one hand against the seat of Raz's pants and the other against his back, lifting him up and a few inches away from the frosty white, she slogged her way forward a few feet before answering Sasha.

"What do you mean, darling?" she asked blankly, once again employing one of her traditional nicknames. Sasha distastefully eyed her almost coddling of poor Raz—who either didn't notice or didn't care, presumably the latter—but didn't address it.

"When one sense is down, the others are emphasized to make up for it. Someone who is a good enough fighter might not even need psychic abilities, even. That's the problem. It's too easy to underestimate someone unendowed. They might even be using that to their advantage."

"They could also be using your paranoia to their advantage. Or this rock to their advantage! Or the earth!" Raz piped up sarcastically. Sasha ignored that, too.

"There's just too many variables for my liking. We're walking into enemy territory with no clue of any ultimate plans they could be working on, or traps they may have set… We barely even know their face plan! All we know is that some of them may be drugged, and they hate psychics, and that they're a shady organization who think they're… saints or something among those lines. We can't even verify that all of them are psychically disabled. For all we know, we could be setting ourselves up! _Ach_! I'm getting worked up." He rubbed his temple furiously, trying in vain to ward off a stress-acquired headache. However, he stopped when he felt a hand against his elbow, and heard a pair of footprints at his side. He looked down, only to see Razputin grinning warmly at him.

"Hey, hey. Don't worry about it. If you're right, and a bunch of baddies jump out right now, then who cares? We're _agents_. They're a bunch of crazy guys with vendettas. We can work through this. Even one of us could kick some ass. All three, and they're toast." Raz held a fist to his chin, his green eyes sparkling with determination. He looked so much like the poster boy for underdogs, with his sopping wet pants, oversized helmet, and determined grin, that Sasha couldn't help but lightly grin back.

"…Maybe. Ah, sure, you're right. I'm sure we could win in a fight. It's just the suspense that's starting to grate on my nerves." He turned his head forward, then paused in thought. "Oh, and Razputin?"

"Yeah?"

"If I ever hear you say 'ass' again, my next psyblast won't be aimed at our rivals." Raz's grin dropped off in an instant, to be replaced by a look of stunned shock.

"W-what? Aw, come on! You say it all the time!"

"Is that so, Sasha?" Milla asked, jokingly suspicious. Sasha smirked a millimeter wider, his headache gone.

"Hell no."

"_Gah_! Salt in the wound!" Raz exclaimed, flailing his arms around dramatically. Snow bounced off his sleeves like fleas. "Mercy, people, mercy!" He struggled to run to catch up with them, but the snow hindered his movements, forcing him to kick, boot, and high-step his way past it, only to fall flat after just a few paces. Milla laughed, and even Sasha gave a tiny chuckle. He quickly forced his way back up again, spluttering out half-melted snow.

"Seriously, though, why are you all paranoid now? You must have had a billion missions like this before." Sasha stopped at the serious question, considering it. Milla's giggles died off as he became quiet, and she, too, watched for his answer. Sasha looked back at them; they stared back, with the open curiosity of children. He opened his mouth, ready to give a sarcastic answer. He even had one planned through, ready and set to slide out of his mouth.

"Because if anything happened to you two, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself." Sasha's eyes widened a tiny bit, and he clamped his mouth shut. Okay, of all of the things he could have said, why had he said _that_? He was Sasha Nein; the famous, robotic Agent Nein, the kind of stoic and tight G-man that was a regular in _True Psychic Tales_ and would shoot his own best friend without a second thought. For God's sake… He must be more stressed than he had believed. He wondered how long it would be before he began spewing out every secret thought he had, from his Social Security number (5) to the frat parties he had attended back in collage.

"Sasha…" Milla breathed, thrown for a loop. Raz, however, just laughed.

"Is that all? You need to calm down a little, Agent Nein. Nothing's happening, all right, unless you count the fact that I'm getting frostbite. But that's not exactly a reason for inforgiveness or anything." He grinned again, crossing his arms in a sort of childish triumph. Sasha cast his eyes away from behind his sunglasses, desperate for something else to focus on.

It was fortunate that he did, as he was the only one who saw when the first shot was fired. It was a regular pistol shot, but strangely mute. He made a mental note to investigate that later, even as he yelled to Agent Vodello.

"Milla, shield _now_!" he barked out, and it was fortunate he did. The Mental Minx didn't question his random demand, noticing the surprise and urgency in his voice. Sasha wasn't the type to give unnecessary orders, and she took it at face value and shielded. Because of that, the bullet ricocheted off the hot pink bubble and into the empty air, where it was lost.

Instantly, the forest shot to life. Sasha's musing, which Raz had marked off as paranoid, was dead on, and the group was quickly ambushed. White robed men—and even a few women—dived out from the trees, their hair and skin being the only things that put them apart from the white ground. Ten… twenty… Sasha lost count, but he estimated somewhere around forty in all. What was worse, they had some sort of thick netting frame on the bottom of their shoes (not unlike snowshoes), which allowed them to stand nearly directly on top of the snow.

"_Ninjas_?" Raz yelped, and his question was not entirely inaccurate. The group certainly acted the part of ninjas, and even their uniforms had a vaguely Japanese-style design to them. Still, perhaps the word 'ninja' would be going too far. Sasha settled for the word 'psychopaths', then got into an attack position.

An awkward silence commenced, during which Raz, Milla, and Sasha got into a tight circle.

"No one mentioned ninjas," Raz muttered to the other two agents.

"They're not ninjas, sweetie," Milla kindly reminded him. "They're…"

"Insane," Sasha interrupted simply. Milla just nodded, and a few more seconds passed. Finally, one of the psychopaths spoke up. He was a black man, further disproving them being Japanese ninjas, with short black hair and disturbingly kind brown eyes. He also had a moustache, beard, and glasses, which was pretty good-looking on him.

"You're the hellspawns, are you not?" he boomed out, his voice loud and clear. This clearly was why he was the leader, or at least orator. "Those bound with unnatural, Satanic curses against His great Earth?"

"We're psychic, if that's what you mean," Sasha responded coldly. The other man smiled, but there was nothing at all assuring or warm about it.

"Ah. Well, it matters not. A name alone cannot prevent the truth."

"Hey, we're not trying to prevent anything!" Raz exclaimed, stepping ahead a pace and into a spot of harder-packed snow, in which he only sank just above his knees. The leader of the psychopaths regarded him only briefly, raising a slight eyebrow at his clunky helmet, oversized goggles, and inadequate winter wear. To say Raz looked at all threatening would have been a joke.

"…I see. How persuasively they convert the young ones to their tainted ways. Concern yourself no longer with this. Do not continue your ways, child, and you shall be purged. Come with us, to the one true light." He held out a hand, the palm looking worn, but welcoming. Raz, however, was having none of that.

"_Hell_ no. You can take your offer and shove it. I'm staying right here." For emphasis, he stomped his foot as best he could against the snow. From behind, Milla breathed a slight sigh of relief, hoping no one noticed. Sasha slid a bit deeper into his attack position, and another silence fell over the group. After about two seconds, the man sighed in an oddly forlorn way.

"So be it. I did not want to do this, but you have driven my hand. Men, _attack_." The ninjas—who had been silent and motionless up until this point, like statues—suddenly sprang into action. With incredible speed, awe-inspiring dexterity, and obviously practiced teamwork, they charged the three agents.

Fortunately, the Whispering Rock Branch were also trained and previously-practiced. With just a simple nod of the head, they sprang in exact opposite directions of each other, pulling out levitation balls in the hopes that the glowing orbs would at least slightly hinder the snow's wrath. Their defensive triangle broadened into an offensive field, with each agent tackling a small army's worth of psychopaths. Blue, pink, and orange beams of psychonetic energy blasted out from all sides in a maneuver known simply as a 'free-for-all'.

It was clear that, at first, Raz had the easiest time. Even with snow up to his waistline (which his levitation ball did virtually _nothing_ to repel), he managed to dodge attacks with acrobatic grace. His orange-themed psychic attacks weren't something to be sorry for, either, as the ninjas were unfortunate enough to learn. Even with their noticeably unnatural skills, they were no match for the raw power behind the psychokinetic moves.

(Of course, Raz would later learn that the ninjas were, in fact, holding back, both for his young age and the fact that killing was a sin—which did not hold true for the normal psychics, as they weren't considered human to them.)

Sasha, were one to put his time on a scale of one to ten, would be about a six. He was holding the ninjas off bay well enough, and had put more than a few out of commission, but he was clearly outnumbered. Also, unlike with Raz, the ninjas were less generous to him. Their attacks were disturbingly kamikaze at points, made worse when they were coupled with weaponry. Sasha had just barely managed to get his shield up in time for many of them, and had already received a few nicks on his person.

Milla would be about equivalent to Sasha (even a little better, he'd grudgingly admit), but her concern was her weakness. While her partners held no qualms with lighting people on fire or shooting them, she shot to stun, pacifistic as always. This left her open for a few more attacks than Raz or Sasha, which she hastily moved to block. Her natural grace was evaporating quickly—a very bad sign. She kept darting glances back to Raz and Sasha, making sure they were okay. Sasha wanted to scream at her to _focus on the battle in front of her_. But he couldn't, for he was busy focusing on the battle in front of himself.

Still, despite everything, one couldn't help but admire the group's syncopation. Their moves were adjusted for each other, carefully weaving around their own attacks and helping the others when it was needed. It was dance-like, it you chose to ignore the fallen bodies and occasion bloodstain on the white.

After a few seconds, Raz's own situation worsened, as it dawned on the ninjas that he was no ordinary boy. Unanimous, but still without speaking, they dropped their handicaps, like a physical weight being taken off. That done, they charged, and Raz let out a yelp that would undoubtedly be made fun of t many Super Bowl parties after the mission was done.

_Provided we live through it_.

Raz was unnerved by the sudden thought, so devastating and final in its bluntness. In a disgracefully short period of time, their mission had gone from boring to life threatening. In a way, it was like a physical blow to his ego and body, and he mis-stepped. A ninja took this opportunity to jab at his kidneys, and he blocked it almost without thinking. Something about this—its suddenness, its subtlety, its possibilities—had him feeling afraid.

"Milla!" he yelled over the noise of the fighting, struggling to catch her attention, to ask her the question that scared him so.

Were they going to die?

"What is it?" she yelled back, not bothering to add a cutesy nickname to the end of the sentence. She was too absorbed in fighting for her life. Raz paused.

"…Watch your back," he replied, his tone oddly empty. She nodded, and they fought on.

* * *

_THE END. 8D No, I'm lying. There's more, but you're not special enough to see it yet. But, if you leave a comment... then you will have left a comment. What? You were expecting something more dramatic? Okay..._

_Me: -Holds an adorable puppy over one of the meatgrinders from the Meat Circus- COMMENT AND I DROP IT! 8D_

_You: Don't you mean, 'comment OR I'll drop it'?_

_Me: ...Why would people take time out of their lives to watch it get away? __SEE THE CONCLUSION OF THE PUPPY'S FATE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS IT! Oh, and there's a bit of Psychonauts, too, I guess._


	2. Orange Flickers

**__**

The Open Musings of Dr. Psycho Director,

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

**_SCENE ONE_**

**_BEHIND THE SCENES_**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_(The stage is very bright, the white backdrop emphasized by florescent lights hanging above the Left and Right exits. Doctors and nurses dart between the exits, power-walking and looking very flustered, often carrying sheets of paperwork and other such items. Only one person is still--a fifteen-year-old in a white smock in the background, staring at a backdrop window with her back turned to the audiance. It is a sunny day outside, and there is a mug on the windowsill.)_**

**_(One of the NURSEs stops. She turned to the besmocked person, pauses, then runs up to her, standing a foot behind and to the left of her. As she approaches, the other doctors and nurses exit, leaving behind only a few scraps of paper.)_**

**_NURSE: (Concerned) Doctor Psycho, have you seen these results from the new scene? They've got the rest of the crew in hysterics, and not in a good way._**

**_DR. PSYCHO: (Over-dramatically solumn) I penned that scene myself. I know what happens._**

**_NURSE: (Pauses, then slowly) ...Why would you do that? _**

**_(A long pause commences)_**

**_DR. PSYCHO: (Forlornly) Because he was my favorite. He always has been. Something had to be done about that._**

**_NURSE: (Confused) What does that have to do with... (Dawning realization) Oh. You mean like... oh._**

**_DR. PSYCHO: I have no idea what you're talking about, but I agree. Now go make me a sammich, bitch._**

**_NURSE: (Nazi salutes) Yes, ma'am! _**

**_(The NURSE leaves. DR. PSYCHO stares out the window for a few more seconds. Casually, she reaches over to the sill, then pulls off the mug and takes a slow sip. After a while, she speaks.)_**

**_DR. PSYCHO: Well, at least the computer is working again. That ought to please the monkeys._**

**_(FADE OUT)_**

**_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_SCENE TWO_**

**_THE ACTUAL FANFIC_**

**_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

_**WARNING: To those of you concerned, this chapter does have a scene that is remarkably similar to one in CD101. Fans of CD101 will know it when they see it, doubtlessly. I'm ashamed of it, but I sincerly hope no one will mind. This fic actually takes a lot of influence from CD101, including a lot of elements I touched on/am touching in it, but never really expanded on. Fans of CD101, I hope, will enjoy the references, and even if you aren't, well... they're spiffy nevertheless. Just... I apologize sincerely for the repitition. 8(**_

* * *

_ERROR. The data is corrupt._

Alexander Taylor stared at the screen for a long while, his tired eyes vacant. The pineapple lay forgotten on the desk, its slices becoming waterlogged and sinking slowly to the bottom. The tower of the computer hummed. The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted, then took off from its perch and into the night sky.

The data was corrupt. The. Data. Was. Corrupt. For all of his skills in getting into HQ, for all of his hacking ability, for his careful patience and waiting for just the right moment… Someone had beaten him. What was worse, they knew he

_maybe not him himself, but someone, at least_

was looking for the information. And he was willing to bet everything he owned (which was a lot) that it was the Saints. They were the only ones who knew what he really was, aside from a handful of friends, which he knew hadn't told anyone else. This wasn't just friendship confidence—he could read their minds, even over long distances. If they were so much as planning to tell his secret then he'd be the first to know.

In that case, that left Alex with just one realization: the Saints knew what he was planning to do. His counter-plan was, in Felix's own words, "damned and aft". Without that data, anyway.

Still, Alex was nothing if not crafty. He did have one ace in the hole, as it was. With slightly more strained calm, he pulled a small silver and blue cell phone out of his pocket. Clipped in-between the flip-top was a worn sheet of notebook paper—which was once white, but had now turned an odd shade of milky yellow—with edges creased against the silver sides of the phone. He slid this out from its home, smoothing its curled edges somewhat against the countertop. In the dim light of the monitor, a set of quickly but carefully scribbled numbers appeared, in grayed but readable ink.

There were only seven, with a dash after the first three—a phone number. The first digits were familiar to him, as they were the Havengräde area code. Havengräde was a small town on the Wisconsin-Minnesota border, just above Redcliff County and, beyond that, the city of Kinsview. It was populated mostly by German immigrants, hence the name, and kept on the map solely for a few rumors about paranormal experiences and its small airport.

The airport was managed mainly by Felix Taylor and his father—and yes, he was the same Felix who had once said "damned and aft". He was also, by coincidence, Alex's fraternal twin brother. While Alex sought his fortune through stranger means, his brother was making money in the flight industry. Ironic who needed who's job services more often. Alex dialed the number.

A long pause commenced from the initial "hello"s on either side. Alex listened raptly to his twin, then finally asked what he had been wanting to from the start.

"I know… I promise, don't worry. Yes… Listen, Felix. Do you have any commercial flights taking off to Nova Scotia today? …No? That's what I thought. Do you have any private flights, then? Excellent. Tell Dad I said, 'hi'… No. Not until they're dead… Good-bye, Felix. I'll see you in an hour." He hung up, then got up. He turned to leave; paused; glanced down at the desk; then took his pineapple slices with.

* * *

_Razputin! To your right_! Raz was startled by the sudden intrusion into his mind, even though he knew just fine his defenses were entirely susceptible to telekinetic messages—in this case, Sasha's. On instinct, he jerked his head roughly to the right, as Sasha had instructed. And it was fortunate he did, even though a ninja took that opportunity to land a disorienting blow to his lower spine before being psyblasted by Milla. Raz didn't even offer her a "thank you".

There was the orator, _running away_ from the fight. He sprinted nearly a foot beside Raz, so much that the boy felt a few kicked up flecks of snow hit his face. It was impossible for Raz to catch his eye, as he was focused entirely on a patch of firs in the distance. Raz knew—having come from that same direction—that the patch abruptly dropped off for a steep hill, meaning that anyone who got to it first would surely have the advantage. Even if one were to use levitation, the slope would make controlling the ball nearly impossible, resulting in quite possibly a dangerous crash.

All of a sudden, Razputin was angry, and very much so. Here they were, fighting their _asses_ off in waist-deep snow and increasing winds against freaking _ninjas_, not even in the same country as their home… And he was running away. He didn't even have to do _anything_, but—God _dammit_ was he a coward! A filthy, dirty coward with stupid ideas and

_How persuasively they convert the young ones to their tainted ways_

crazy speeches. And Raz undoubtedly _despised_ him.

"Get back here!" he yelled, thrusting himself up and on top of the snow. It was fortunate that the snow was harder to the right, its annoying bumpy texture thrusting up so the white only went up to his knees. It still hindered him, like fluffy quicksand, but a lot less so, and he tore after the fleeing man.

"_Raz, no_!"

"Darling, think about what you're doing!"

"Use your clairvoyance!"

Raz ignored the cries of his teammates. Let them complain if they wanted to. They couldn't stop him. If there was one thing Raz couldn't stand, it was watching a baddie slip out of his grip. He had had enough trouble with Oleander—he did _not_ want another Oleander! No, this guy was going to burn, and he was going to burn _tonight_.

The wind was picking up faster. Raz let out a grunting noise of frustration as white spiraled through the air, stinging his skin red as it smacked against it. He knew they only had a few minutes before it became a full snowstorm, maybe even a blizzard. A few minutes were all he needed.

Still, the orator wouldn't slow down. He kept winding down the snowy field, like a dog following a pleasant scent. He darted between trees at first, banging their trunks in an attempt to send piles of snow down to bury Raz. None worked, and soon they were almost sprinting downhill, during which the orator gained a few infuriating inches on Raz. After that, they passed through a colorless field, and Raz's sense of location was lost. He dared to glance back just once: the sight of the forest was almost completely lost in the white wind.

Raz cursed mentally. The snow was too light and fluffy, and could be picked up in the slightest breeze. Even now, he could barely see the orator; despite them being only a few yards apart. He hoped he would be able to catch up soon, but some part of him prayed that he wouldn't. Then he'd have to admit it: he was getting close to getting lost.

_Well, not to worry_, Raz reminded himself. _Sasha and Milla can track me down mentally, right? Aura Tracking, was it called? Yeah, that's right. They'll be stupid-mad, though. _He giggled to himself. Jeez, it was like he had never left his parents. So, with that in mind, he pushed on, through the snowy field, until he could no longer see the forest, and hadn't for some time. Instead, they entered a new one, with spindly bare elms instead of firs.

He was starting to get tired.

He was starting to get hungry.

And he couldn't shake off this odd feeling he had, sort of a prickling at the nape of his neck up his skull, kind of tickly, rather like… like…

_Oh, hell_. He froze as it dawned on him, as sudden as the question of whether he was going to die or not, but with far more force. Sort of like he was being watched, actually. And there was no 'sort of' about it—while he was following the orator, someone was following _him_.

It was emphasized by another sudden feeling—pain. His vision exploded white-hot, like staring into the sun, that refused to fade. Bright sparkles, just like stars, dotted his vision, and his ears rang. His skull felt like it had been cracked open, the fire blooming all across his body in the worst migraine anyone's ever had. Someone screamed; it was probably him. He fell face-first into the snow, though, and the cold helped soothe the pain, if he ignored the fact that it was so cold it seemed to burn, too. Either way, his head was flaming, his thoughts crumpling black and twisting up into nothing. He couldn't see anything; the snow smothered his face, tufting up and around it every time he hyperventilated out.

Raz immediately staggered back to his feet, though, his vision ghostly and ears ringing. He reached one hand up shakily to his forehead, massively disoriented, but before he could, a rock-hard fist smashed into his jaw. He flung back clumsily into the snow, his head giving a sharp throb at the sudden motion. His head was spinning too hard to keep him standing (_I should see a doctor about that_), so he instead pressed his weight onto the palms of his hands, then kicked out sharply with both feet at his attacker. Much to his shock, however, he felt a pair of thick hands grab his ankles in mid-kick, then fling him to the side. His back made contact with one of the elms in the forest, its rough surface tearing at his shirt and biting into his skin. He yelled, his eyesight flashing a flashbulb red, before he felt those same hands grab the collar of his sweater, cutting off his cry with a strange "ack!" With a jerk, they tossed him in the opposite direction, like a basketball. He somersaulted around in the snow, its cold stinging his wounds, for about three revolutions, before coming to a halt on his stomach and lying still. He once again breathed in icy flakes shakily, his heart racing and the snow so close to his eyes that it looked just black.

More pain followed the initial mêlée attack, some coming close to the migraine, but never quite matching it. All varieties were used, too. Disjointed throbbing in his stomach. Pinpricks in one of his legs, which was pinned under the other and falling asleep even as it burned. A sharp, more perceptible throbbing in his other leg, which felt twisted painfully. Itchy, tickling pain in his throat, which made him cough up something wet and in globs. He hoped it wasn't spit. He wanted to die with dignity.

_Die_? He asked himself, even as the sharp and numb pains increased throughout his body. His eyes were shut, but he could hear someone yelling, a shrill whistle ringing, and wet, crunching, and rapid _thwacks_ over and over again. He didn't need to open his eyes to know he was getting the living shit beaten out of him. Even though he used his psyshield as much as he could, the useless thing, as always, only stuck around for a few seconds, then died, and the attacks would continue. His mouth dribbled warm—hot, even—as he hacked and coughed, screamed and yelled, jerked and twitched with each blow. His eyes were warm and wet, too; he discovered with faded disgust that he had started crying somewhere around the second broken rib. He answered himself,

_Look, I don't care. The odds are I already am dead, or at least on my way to becoming so. Just let me flashback in peace, okay? It's better than this. _He winced, screaming/choking again, as someone kicked him in the three (four?) busted ribs-sporting stomach. Even though it made his legs hurt more, he curled up into a tiny ball in an attempt to protect his vitals.

A second ambush. That was what this was, he knew. That orator wasn't fleeing—he was leading Raz into a trap. "Use clairvoyance", indeed. If he had listened to Agent Nein, he would have doubtlessly seen the backup beforehand. Great. Now he was going to die stupid. He was—

"_Enough_." The voice was loud and booming, carrying over the yells like it was over a microphone. The orator. With his words, the new surges of pain immediately stopped, leaving only the many left to throb and bleed themselves out.

Weakly, even though it stung, Raz forced his eyes half-open. Blurry shapes danced across the snow—floating heads and hands, two pairs of them, waving around just a little. No, not floating; just dressed in white robes. Not like ninjas… like saints… like priests. Something holy like that. Pure. In some sort of unexplainable way, they made Raz feel slightly ashamed. He felt so… impure, almost… as he lay on his side in the snow, broken, bleeding. And there, standing beside him, was the leader of them, the one who seemed to shine bright white despite his dark skin.

_Come with us, to the one true light._

Raz very nearly took that hand he imagined. But no, he couldn't. Sasha and Milla would be unhappy. And he couldn't lift his own hand to touch it, anyway.

"Poor, dear child," the warm voice crooned to him. It was sympathetic; it understood. The orator knew what he was going through, he knew, he was like a father… No, no, that wasn't right! He _hurt _him! He caused Raz to lie there, dying the snow scarlet, like an unwanted doll. He wasn't a saint, he was insane! But he was also nice… Raz was confused. Unfocused. Tired. And the orator was speaking again. When the orator spoke, people listened.

"You are lost in many more ways than one; a lost little lamb that fell into the wrong hands. The hands of evil. Show no fear, though, for we're here to save you. Though you die, you died with our blessing. We will guide you to His kingdom, young one. You will be safe there, free from your sins. Free from the wrong path on which you walk." Well, that was nice, wasn't it? He liked Heaven, of course. And to be told he was guaranteed it? That was fine… But it wasn't. He was still alive; he shouldn't be concerned with the afterlife! Even if it was a pleasant one, safe and fancy and welcoming. But they weren't saviors—they were murderers! Everything they said was based on lies! Why should this be any different? Oh, but he wanted to believe it'd be all okay…

"Father Riorez, the poison."

"A-are you sure? It's still experimental. It could be incredibly painful…"

"I'll take that risk."

Oh, God, Raz hurt. He tried to tally up what hurt and how, but he couldn't even get all the way down his torso before something lit up again and he lost his place. His leg was broken, though, and he felt like he had a concussion. His right leg felt fractured, as did some points on both hands, and he could hardly breathe. Everything felt at least bruised, however.

He felt something press against his lips. It was cold, like the snow, and strange against his bottom lip, which he had bit until it bled through. It was liquid. It was poison. He whimpered, twisting his head to one side in a feeble attempt to keep himself from killing himself. He could just barely see the very light, transparent pink liquid slosh up to gently brush against his lip, the slide in a thin trail across his cheek as he turned away. Contradictory to that, however, was a brown hand that grabbed his chin and forced it back, sending painful twinges up his neck muscles.

"Now, now, boy. We cannot have that. You mustn't resist. You'll only get hurt." Raz bared his teeth, both in pain and in some instinctive form of defiance. However, his face began to turn red, and he soon forced his mouth back open, gasping for air. It was then that he felt it—the cold liquid sliding into his mouth and down his throat, chilling his mouth and tracing its way down. He tried to spit most of it out, and ended up just dribbling it down his chin. However still, some managed to make it down.

He had been poisoned. Assassinated. His first mission as a Psychonaut, sent off merrily on his way to Nova Scotia to rescue Truman Zanotto, and then they went and killed him. Somehow, Raz felt more struck by the irony than afraid of death. What would the older agents, who had doubted his abilities from the start, think? Would they bury his body with some sort of demeaning phrase on the gravestone? 'Here lies Razputin Aquato—well, it wasn't like we didn't expect it to happen'? He'd die as some unknown child who had toddled into the big leagues by accident, and no one would know what he was really capable of except for the guys at Whispering Rock.

…He really wanted to get his license, too… His stomach felt funny…

Suddenly Raz shrieked, his voice drawn tight with agony and screeching like something feral. The poison bitterly 180'd in his stomach, and the latter went absolutely insane, twisting in on itself and impaling itself on spikes and burning and everything unpleasant he'd ever felt. Broken leg? That was _nothing_! He twisted around onto his back, grabbing his gut and screaming bloody murder. His fingers dug red marks into his flesh, the nails biting through even the thick material of his sweater. Even as he fought against it, the pain worked its way up his body, like a living creature, clawing and tearing at organs as it climbed. His heart pulsed and throbbed painfully, expanding until he was sure it would burst. His lungs felt like they had been wrung out and crushed beneath a mighty fist.

The pain worked its way up to his throat, during which the latter closed up and he gasped and coughed even fiercer. Then, finally, it scratched and scraped its way up to his head, where it promptly exploded. Raz saved his most agonized scream for that moment, the noise twisting up into the air and echoing into the trees, like some sort of warning siren. Caution: Do Not Come Here.

Raz threw his head back, claw-like hands against his helmet, and wailed, working his way to his knees somehow in the process. Something, something absolutely awful was tearing open his _mind_, but oh God he loved his mind he couldn't think he couldn't see or hear or consider anything but that _pain_ it just _hurt so much_ he was dying that had to be it no one could survive this much torture he _wanted_ to die he wanted it to end just please please make it all stop hurting so much so _God damn much_ he couldn't take it he couldn't take it he couldn't he couldn't make it go away make it all go away oh _God_ it hurt…

It was a huge mercy when his body complied. Even through the white glare, which was all he could see, black dappled at the edges. Slowly, all too slowly, the pain ebbed away, starting from his hands and toes and working down his limbs. He wasn't sure it was fading at first, but quickly enough, his body fell numb. He collapsed back facedown into the snow, not even minding the cold, or how it made it a little hard to breathe. He gasped in the bitterly cold air, wincing every time his heart or head gave a particularly nasty throb. They were getting worse, even as the rest of the pain faded. He just wanted to sleep, but they kept going off in their annoying way of theirs.

Finally, his head and heart both gave one particularly huge throb, forcing his eyes to squeeze tightly shut and his hands—one brushing against the top of his scalp, the other stretched in front of him—to twist into fists. He shuddered horribly, his body giving him one last reminder before shutting down. Then all he could know was darkness.

It was perfect darkness, really. Beautiful. But he didn't notice. Even if he did, he didn't fully understand, not at all, as the last of his psychic aura was already trickling away. His body fell still, and the orange light that constantly surrounded him to any other psychic spluttered, flickering, like a candle.

Then, as his blood continued to dye the pure, white snow deep red, it gave one last, tiny surge, then died.

* * *

_Me: ...Please don't kill me. I have a cat at home. D8_

_You: I'LL BET RAZ HAD A CAT! _

_Me: Really? I wouldn't know._

_You: THAT'S BECAUSE YOU K... KI... YOU GOT TO HIM BEFORE YOU COULD FIND OUT!_

_Me: Easy, now. There's no need for violence. And he's not dead. He... uh... ran away._

_You: THAT'S THE... Hey... Where's the puppy?_

_Me: ? -Looks around- ...Well, crap. There goes my blackmail. That's a lot, made up personification of every reader of this fic._

_You: Yes! Puppy freedom! GO, RUN AND BE FREE!_

_Me: FINE. You can keep your puppy. I DON'T WANT IT. Though I must admit, it's amazing that no one complained about putting the rabbits into the grinder--except Oly--but when it came to a puppy... Just as I planned._

_You: That's because the rabbits are ugly and the 'Protect Little Oly' mission SUCKED HARD._

_Me: Oh, I agree. You want to get a burger?_

_You: Yeah, sure. Hey, aren't we supposed to be arguing about something?_

_Me: Uh... no. No we weren't._

_You: Okay. -The puppy runs over and leaps into your arms, panting and wagging its cute tail. You gasp.- Aw! So cute!_

_(We begin walking to the exit. The CAMERA is behind us, and the door is open, casting us and the entire room into a sihouette. The sun is setting, and everything is orange and gold.)_

_Me: -Looks at the puppy- ...Are you going to finish that?_

_THE END. AW._

* * *


	3. Crimson Dyed Snow

**I'm Psycho Director, And I Approve This Message,**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

**OUR MUTUAL ENEMY: THE MUSICAL!**

**SCENE THREE**

**KINSVIEW CITY STREETS**

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

**(It is the middle of the night, as the sky is dark, yet laced with stars and a full moon. The city still has many lights turned on, in a sort of checkerboard pattern. The CAMERA is focused on the moon, then slowly pans over the rooftops of the skyscrapers before coming to rest on a particularly large, gray one. PSYCHO and ERIC FOX, her brother, are on it, looking over the railed edge while standing next to an air vent.)**

**ERIC FOX: (Sternly, to PSYCHO) You can be strange at times, do you know that?**

**PSYCHO: I've been told that more than once in my life.**

**ERIC FOX: I read over the latest chapter. I ARE NOT PLEASED. Or I am please, I can't really make up my mind.**

**PSYCHO: So I could gather. Chai tea?**

**ERIC FOX: Yes. (PSYCHO passes him a mug) Thanks. But I'm still mad at you.**

**PSYCHO: So does it seem to be the case. I predict the readers will either want to kill me or glomp me, which will certainly resort in either death or spinal damage.**

**ERIC FOX: And people say I'M the pessimistic one.**

**PSYCHO: Why do you think we're standing on this roof? The mobs should be arriving shortly. Good thing I brought snacks.**

**ERIC FOX: I trust you've barracaded the entrances and exits properly, so no readers can get in here?**

**PSYCHO: Yes. Many mattresses were lost.**

**ERIC FOX: But what if the other people in this building have to head to work?**

**PSYCHO: I thought of that, too. I laced their drinks with a powerful narcotic, then tied them all to a chair.**

**ERIC FOX: ...What if they have to use the bathroom?**

**PSYCHO: I never said I thought of everything. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go start this chapter. And hopefully answer the previous comments. I knew I forgot something.**

**(FADE OUT)**

**Welcome to Kinsview City!** The sign proclaimed, its giant white letters shining bright against a chalkboard-green background. Below it were three simple, far less happy-sounding words: Redcliff County and Theodrea. Below them were painted two short arrows, pointing up and right, respectively.

Alex watched the sign boredly as his Chevy Silverado drove the standard sixty-two miles past it in its own, claustrophobic block of road space between the other cars. The sign was sandwiched much like he was, but it was between two ads, all three tacked up against the side of the bridge Alex was passing under. One told Alex to 'make his own vacation' at Bread's Bed and Breakfast, while the other reminded him that Fueling the Addiction had their latest album out, an emo sort of thing known as _One More Crisis_… or something among those lines. Alex made a mental note to check up on that later. He happened to enjoy Fueling the Addiction's works.

The song on his radio, however, wasn't Fueling the Addiction, but it was nevertheless entertaining. It was a catchy ditty by a more 'realistic' band—'Over and Over', by Three Days Grace. He tapped his fingers along to the beat (it was strangely slower than their usual tunes) against the wheel, impatiently waiting for the traffic to meander its way to Havengräde.

One thing you should know—traffic laws in the entire western border of Wisconsin, from Kinsview City to a tiny place some moron had named Hitlerville (I DO NOT LIE), were very low-key. For example, Alex was fourteen. He was driving down a main highway in his own car, and no one really seemed to notice, or care if they did. Still, that fact didn't cheer him up as he continued passing the skyscrapers to the words "over and over, I fall for you". He actually half-wished someone would pull him over and send him home, so he wouldn't have to drive any further through this God-awful place.

He really didn't like Kinsview City, as it struck him as bipolar. By day, it seemed welcoming and friendly, with old couples at every corner and fundraising grade schoolers offering gullible civilians ridiculously expensive chocolates, under the guise that buying them would make them a good person. By night, though, the disguise was dropped, and the streets became very dangerous. It was almost New York in its criminality, with rapists and convicted murders let off on technicalities taking the place of the old couples on the corners, flipping switchblades and showing off tattoos. At first, Alex had once blamed this on scattered excuses ("Mercury in the water…?"), but he would have to be blind to not notice the weird ways the shadows moved, and he didn't mean that in a metaphorical sense. They didn't always seem to match the owner just right, actuality… But that was Kinsview's problem. Everyone else was just eager to leave it behind, and Alex was no exception.

On the way, he ran a red light, made two illegal turns, and nearly hit someone's dog, so eager was he to get to Havengräde. No one noticed. And that dog was jaywalking, anyway.

* * *

The orator, a man known to very few by John Castleton, watched at his hired hand mercilessly pummeled the young psychic… oh, how he loathed the very word… very nearly to death. The child's screams of absolute, previously unknown agony tore at his partially insane mind. Had that little boy not been so… psychic… he would have undoubtedly received kindness and helpfulness from John, the exact opposite of what he _had_ gotten.

John Castleton, a still rather young man with a doctorate in medicine from Theodrea University and a mind that was really only slightly mad, stood and watched the morally shunned act occur. The public would have seen him as a monster, undoubtedly, but they didn't know what he knew. Couldn't they see it? Couldn't they see the ways that mysterious energy tore up their own earth right in front of them? John shuddered as soon as he thought of it. He hated the way they twisted the natural way of _everything_, throwing the delicate balance of nature and life into risk. Only God—_only_ God—was supposed to be able to manipulate His earth, His water, His air! They had no right! They didn't know what they were doing at all. It was like trusting a psycho with a gun in a room full of women with purses, honestly. How could a child like that begoggled one know how to properly keep the balance in line, when he could control the earth? Obviously, something needed to be done to prevent these powers—these Satanic 'gifts'—from destroying them all.

He was only really a little crazy, just a bit, but could anyone doubt him when he said that? Even when he went so far as to suggest the _psychics_ could be possessed by Lucifer himself (or certainly a demon), was that so far-fetched? People grafted with abilities designed solely to steal power from God and wring destruction on earth, well, what other explanation could there be? Certainly God Himself wouldn't give them such a destructive talent, which only left that fallen angel.

It was then, with that thought firm in front of his mind, that he asked for the poison. He reminded himself of Satan, of those evils, to keep his mind from even considering giving in to the little boy's whimpering. Still, even it could not stop him from muttering sweet condolences between them, more to calm himself than the boy. He promised him a place in Heaven, given him more of a 'sacrifice' position than a cursed one.

He simply didn't have the heart to tell him that, when cursed by Satan's hand, he would undoubtedly be drawn back to the fiery pits of Hell he was attached to, like a yo-yo. So it was written every time he levitated, every time he lifted up a stone with his mental energy, so it will be.

John Castleton watched that child's aura flicker and die out, the young child's screams and yells dying off permanently as it faded down closer and closer to himself. He watched the orange glow, invisible to so many others, fade into nothing at all against him, even as remnants of it bounced around on the blood puddles, somehow hanging on longer than the late main light. His hired hand walked up to check a pulse in his own _normal_ way, but John waved his off with a simple wave of the hand.

"He's beyond us now. Let's head back to the others." The hired hand paused, curious, then nodded slowly and walked back above the snow. John waited until he had disappeared into the white wind, which was whipping around something fierce now, then cast a regretful glance at the psychic protégé, whose name he would never know. His goggles had cracked in the fight, their red light casting a broken reflection back at him.

Finally, John just sighed, and turned away. He had to get back to the other fight, to purge the other two psychics.

All psychics were doomed to Hell. It was written from the very day they were born, when the psychic energy first coursed through their veins. It was traced over every time they looked around and saw those enigmatic auras of light, every time John opened his eyes. So it was said, so it would forever be.

* * *

The woods were quiet, overshadowed in an almost smothering veil of peace. Only a few yards away to both the north and the south, two things were happening, but for that short amount of time that whispered between the trees, between clumps of fluffy white flakes and a chilling wind, all was quiet.

Pools of blood—appearing black in the dark of the night—shone with fading orange light. The light danced and jumped around like flames on oil, curiously prodding at the stormy air. They also touched against the blood, the snow, and a fallen Psychonaut, his body lying limp and unresponcive in the white like a deathbed. It was near him, though not on him, that the remaining light gathered upon great splashes of new blood, flickering their glow across pallid skin and lightly shut eyes. A few brushed their feathery tendrils against Raz's icy face, as if trying to bring some warmth back to him. They were fading, though, and he continued to lie still.

Then, something reacted. His heart, which had been as cold and still as a cinderblock before, gave a sudden lurch. He let out a wet gasp, jerking harshly, as his body forced itself up with all the subtlety of an electric shock. His lungs rattled at this, and he felt an unbearable urge to cough. He just managed to lift himself up enough to hack an unusual mix of blood and plegm into the snow (and quite likely puke, he couldn't tell), then collapse nary a few inches from it. This time, however, his face was pulled to the side, instead of buried into the cold stuff.

He lost consciousness again—though it was questionable if he had ever really had it—and fell still. His heart throbbed jaggedly for a few minutes longer, confused at why it had stopped in the first place, then settled into some form of normal rhythm.

Raz's last thought, though he wasn't aware of it, was, _Good thing I went to the bathroom before we left._

* * *

Daniel Erikson had always been, by the standard definition, your average Canadian citizen. He had a loving wife, Katherine Erikson, managed a bed and breakfast, had a pet husky named Socrates, and watched hockey games on the weekends. His family of two (three if you counted Socks) made excellent pay from his management job, enough to allow them a nice house near his work and a spacious cabin in the woods for the vacation time. It was there that they were staying that day, enjoying a nice Christmas vacation.

It was also there, in that mostly unused part of forest in Nova Scotia, that the Whispering Rock Branch had come and fought John and his minions (for there really wasn't a better term for the ninjas).

Now, if you were to draw a quick map of that Canadian forest at that point in time, the positioning would have been astounding. The cabin was a good distance from civilization, but remarkably only a few dozen yards left from that snowy clearing where Raz was attacked. Were John to see the placement, he would have commented that God had been looking out for Raz (or, if nothing else, the sadistic author behind his predicament). In any case, the cabin was near enough that Raz's screams, loud as they were, did not go unanswered.

Daniel was out in his yard, playing a casual game of fetch with Socrates, when he heard the first scream. As Raz was bashed over the head with a very hard bludgeoning object, he pulled away from his throwing position and held the stick to his chest, wondering if he was hearing things while Socrates whined impatiently for the throw. As Raz's first rib broke, Daniel jumped, his heart set to racing. Now he was confident that he wasn't imagining things. Socrates, meanwhile, growled and scratched at the ground as he continued to listen and not throw.

By the second rib, Daniel was running. Now, Daniel wasn't foolish, actually. Before following the disturbing noises he could hear, he first ran to his shed. He ran out with a flashlight and a hunting rifle, loaded and un-safetied. Somewhere, in _his_ forest, someone was getting hurt. It would take some time for him to run that far, especially as his legs weren't what they used to be and the weather was worsening, but he could certainly try.

Socrates followed him as he stomped his way through the thick snow, her paws easily letting her lope through it, even as she sank practically to her belly. She bounced around energetically, kicking up snowy clumps and barking. Her ears perked up every once in a while as the voice continued to holler, catches weird noises Daniel couldn't hope to hear. Even as she bounced around, almost making fun of his sluggish but determined pace, he didn't let up. He would find out what was going on.

By the time Daniel reached the snowy woods just beyond his house (taking a route directly opposite the direction that Raz had first ran in), which was by then piled with snow a few inches above his knees, over fifteen minutes had passed. Now, as he clomped his way through the frosty sea, he noted how disturbingly desolate the area was. The tracks made originally by the three had been blown away nearly to nothing, and any view of the other forests nearby was lost in the white swirling in the sky. The trees' bare gray branches clawed and danced in the wind, sending still more snow onto the floor. It was almost as if Daniel had stepped out of reality, to some sort of deathly alternate reality. A monochrome reality.

Well, that was a misconception. There were a few spots of red against the white, dabbed across in ugly blotches. They glinted inky black in the flashlight's beam, though, like oil. There could be no doubt that there had been a fight here, though the red was already fading to a brownish-pink into the frost. All was quiet, aside from the whistling wind, Socrates energetic bounds, and the snow crunching and crackling beneath Daniel's boots. He shuddered at it, wrapping his huge jade-green jacket with tan fur trim over a rather chubby form.

The wind blew Daniel's umber bangs into his eyes, and he impatiently brushed it out of the way, only for it to flop back into his vision. It was one of those things that was incredibly small, but unbearably frustrating. Daniel swiped at his hair like it was a mosquito, muttering under his breath and pressing his gloved hand against a sandpapery tree trunk.

_Crish._

Daniel blinked when his foot made an odd noise against the snow, like hitting delicate ice. He glanced down at it, only to discover he had stepped onto one of the blood puddles. What was worse, it lead up to a bigger one, a _much_ bigger one. Slowly, unwillingly, Daniel trained his flashlight light up the width of the puddle, his eyes widening as it thickened. Finally, he saw what he was looking for.

A body.

"Oh, God!" Daniel cried when he first caught sight of the tiny frame, looking even more eerie and discolored in the yellow glow. He was small for his age (the psitanium in Whispering Rock stunts growth, I _swear_), with an aviator helmet and large red goggles lying lopsided on his forehead. He also had a dark jacket, and… oh, screw it, you know it's Razputin. But Daniel didn't. All he saw was what looked distressingly like a murder scene, partially hidden in settling snow.

Daniel's boots kicked up positive clouds of snow as he plowed over to the body, which was splashed all over with black pools, an impossible amount, as if he had simply had a bucket dumped on him. The closer Mr. Erikson got, the worse the ten-year-old seemed. His clothing was torn in many spots, showing that more than fists had been used, which would explain the blood. One leg was at an odd angle, as were two fingers on his right hand. The back of his jacket was torn with the most ferocious tears of all; great long gashes identifiable only by the fact that they were a shining black, as compared to the regular dark of the jacket. His jacket arms, too, had a few shining tears, which tricked ebony down his limbs in rivulets. However, there were not many, and his legs were mostly untouched. Whoever had attacked him was going straight for the vitals, and the spine, apparently. They were attacking to kill, or, at the very least, stun.

"Oh no… Please, be alive! Be _alive_!" Daniel whispered loudly to himself, falling to his knees at the cor… the boy's side. Carefully, being very cautious as to not twist what was obviously a broken leg, Daniel turned him around.

His eyes were closed, which was a relief. Daniel had been fearing—even expecting—that they would be open wide, frozen for eternity in a mask of terror over someone Daniel would never know. Though still, his face was scary in itself. Dark shadows graced the small space under delicate lashes. His mouth hung open very slightly, with trails of still-fresh blood trailing out to his chin. His skin was ghostly pale, almost white.

Shaking, Daniel lifted up one skinny wrist, an unresponsive hand curling in on itself on the end like a dying flower. As he rolled up the dark and slightly damp sleeve, thoughts crowded in his head.

Who could have done this? Why? The woods were hardly used by anyone—why would they be here? But, on the other hand, if this was a preplanned murder, Daniel had to admit they were very good. It was only by coincidence that he was here—otherwise the forest would be entirely empty. No one would come there, and even if they did, the body could very well be worn away into nothing by then. And, with the impending blizzard, it was very doubtful police would be able to arrive in the woods in time, giving them an amazing opportunity to escape on the off chance they were caught.

_Th-thump… th-thump…_

Daniel breathed a huge sigh of relief, letting the hand fall into the snow. There was a pulse. It was weak and quiet, barely there at all, but it was _there_. This wasn't a murder.

(Alex Taylor, years later, would be scratching his head at that point as he read through the mission documents for not the first time, wondering how it was possible for a psychic to survive without their aura. Then, he would just smile and nod, smile and nod, as he remembered something important.)

"Alright, let's get you home, then," Daniel sang happily, with almost hysterical undertones. He grinned to himself as he took off his coat, shivering lightly as the cold bit through his sweater and undershirt. He didn't put it back on, though, but instead wrapped the warm cloth around the boy's unconscious (but not dead! _Not dead_!) body like a normal coat, only without bothering to thread his arms through the sleeves. That done, he lifted the snow-dusted bundle into his arms, driven giddy with relief.

Socrates, sensing that her master was ready to leave, loped over from where she had been sniffing at the blood scattered around. She sniffed at the hem of Daniel's coat, curious about the new smell. For about three seconds, she locked gazes with the second person, cocking her head to the side. Then, apparently deciding that the scent was a pleasant one, she barked once and wagged her tail. Daniel offered her a weak smile, then began making his slow way back to his home even as the wind increased its speed.

Back home.

Back to a phone.

Even if the police weren't able to make their way through the blizzard, he could certainly let them know of what had happened. Things like this simply could not go unpunished. This… this was absolutely unforgivable. Something had to be done.

With that in mind, Daniel Erikson headed for home. It was a long slog back, especially considering the new weight, the rising winds, and the fact that his body seemed more concerned with curling in as close as possible to itself rather than stretch forward in another step. Still, nonetheless, Daniel managed to stomp his way through the skeletal trees, which made odd hissing, booing noises as the wind weeded through them, almost as if they were mad that he had taken their victim.

* * *

"Katherine, we have a problem!" were the first words Katherine Taylor heard as her husband stormed into the cabin, lower legs up to his knees still coated in snow, eyes wide, and carrying his coat. Now, Katherine was a very lenient person by nature, almost always calm and welcoming, but it just so happened that she was nearing the climax in one of her books (_Cheating Death 101_), and the sudden intrusion made her yelp and jump.

"Daniel, what…? Why are you holding your coat? It must be twenty below out there!" She quickly pressed the book against the counter (in a bridge-shape, so she could pick up her place again later), then ran over to Daniel.

Her long brown hair, which she had tied into a ponytail, fell around halfway down her back in a slightly wavy cascade. Her long bangs, meanwhile, slightly obscured pale gray-blue eyes. Her cyan blouse was decoratively ruffled, partially hidden by a coarse jean jacket. She had on white jeans and matching white sneakers, and wore just a gold chain bracelet for jewelry. She was also rather pretty, considering she was in her mid-thirties.

"There was a mugging in the forest," Daniel explained simply, his voice tight and just a little trembling. Katherine froze, her hands already reaching for his coat to hang it up on the wooden hooks beside the door. She stared at the thick winter wear, quickly making the connection. Her hands slid up to her chest, where they wrapped around themselves.

"Oh…" she stated simply. Daniel nodded.

"I think I'll need some help. I can set up the guest room if you bandage him up." Slowly, Katherine's hands reached out towards the coat, but far more delicately. This time, Daniel handed it over, and Katherine got her first look at the damage. She gasped.

"My! But he's so… _small_!" She lifted the thick, heavy coat from him, exposing clotted patches of blood and sickly pale skin. She gave a moment to wonder how her husband knew he was still alive, then quickly banished the idea. He was alive, and that was what was important.

Raz started shivering a little without the coat, goosebumps prickling paper-white skin and his shut eyes tightening ever-so-slightly. Katherine responded by putting him over one shoulder, shivering herself as the cold body pressed against hers. Once that was done, she turned and nodded to Daniel.

"Okay. Let's go."

* * *

_Yaaaaaaaaay! Raz is okay! 8D ...Oh, come ON. You didn't think I'd kill him off for good, did you? He's my favorite character, for Peeps' sake! YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT; I ALWAYS HAVE AN ACE UP MY SLEEVE. And if you don't, then... shame. We could have been friends. 8( _

_Anyway, severe apologizes for the repitition from CD101, to anyone here who reads both (at least one person, I know). I promise, this is the last time I'll_

_**-SPOILERS-**_

_Kill Raz. _

**_-SPOILERS END NOW-_**

_Well, okay, maybe once more... or twice... or seventy-three more times... Oh, dear... my fish does seem to be going off... I'd better change it... laundry... -Bolts-_

_-Bolts back- DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW! Så kom och, dansa med oss, klappa era händer, gör som vi gör, ta några steg åt, vänster, lyssna och lär, missa inte chansen, nu är vi här med, CARAMELLDANSEN!!_ _8D Serious kudos if you understood that. (The last word is the key.) -Dances, thenn bolts off again-_


	4. Emerald Eyes

**_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_OUR MUTUAL ENEMY: THE MUSICAL!_**

**_SCENE 5_**

**_PSYCHO'S ROOM_**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_(It is calm in the Arigawa household, as nothing can be heard outside of the door. Inside, the yellow glow of a single lamp lights up the blue-and-red room, where PSYCHO can be seen sitting cross-legged on the bed. She is wearing two SOCK PUPPETS, and is talking to them with a smile on her face.)_**

**_PSYCHO: (Disjointedly, to SOCK PUPPET 1) I agree, Jimmy. It seems a plan has just begun, and it's something surley swell! _**

**_SOCK PUPPET 1: But if they're emotionally deficient we're headin' straight to hell!_**

**_SOCK PUPPET 2: But Hell is where the fire is, and I guess that's just as well!_**

**_PSYCHO: Sasha and Milla have some issues we must get them to appriciate!_**

**_SOCK PUPPET 1: So put on some sad music, all, and expect you won't be late!_**

**_SOCK PUPPET 2: And to think I thought they'd think mental distress is great!_**

**_PSYCHO: It's something simply beautiful, but in the end it's right..._**

**_ALL: WE HOPE YOU HAVE THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE!!_**

**_PSYCHO: ...Told you it was a musical. 8D_**

* * *

Traffic was thick in Redcliff County that day. Try as he might, Alex could not figure out why. To make things worse, he had only brought one CD with him on the trip, and it was currently on its third run-through. He'd listen to radio, but it felt sort of like cheating now.

Well, at least the view was nice. Lots of cows, and… fields. And cows in fields. God, he really didn't like Wisconsin.

_I will not die… I'll wait here for you… I feel alive… when you're beside me… I will not die… I'll wait here for you… in my time of dying…_

* * *

Sasha and Milla, unbelievably, had nearly managed to subdue all of the minions, though it had taken them almost a half-hour. White-clothed bodies littered the ground, a few dead, but the vast majority unconscious. Some were moaning in pain, but had neither the strength nor the bravery to get up. Only about half a dozen remained fighting, three each for both of the agents.

Sasha Nein had already knocked out one of his trio, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He had watched Raz and the orator run from the fight, watched Raz's aura fade off into the wind. He hated to admit it, but he was concerned. No, more than that; he was even a little afraid. Like Milla, he had sensed that there was at least one more person in the forest (though, being non-psychic themselves, he couldn't detect their aura). He had tried to warn Raz about the ambush potential, but, for reasons he couldn't understand, the young agent had ignored him.

He hoped Razputin was alright, even as he blocked a clumsy punch from one of the minions, then judo-flipped him over his back and into the snow, where he lay still. If he was right, and there was yet another ambush planned… he shuddered to think about it.

How did that old saying go, again? 'Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.' Sasha shook his head. To be fair, none of the agents were expecting a _second_ ambush. It seemed tacky, repetitive. But effective.

_Thwack! Thud!_

The last of the three went down, his face hitting the snow hard. Milla, meanwhile, knocked out the remaining two on her end of things by creatively kicking her spiky levitation ball like a soccer ball. It hit one, ricocheted off, hit the other, and they both fell.

It was at that moment that the agents stood still, collectively catching their breath. One of the previously fallen ninjas tried to get back up, but a psiblast to his face extinguished that idea quickly. That done, Sasha stood up an inch straighter, readjusting his sunglasses with a professional air.

_Razputin, are you there_?Sasha commanded telepathically. It seemed rather pointless, as Raz had not yet mastered even basic telepathy, but the established link would still be able to send a slight subliminal… feeling… if Raz noticed it.

Nothing happened. Confused and unsettled, Sasha tried again.

_Razputin, come _in. Only silence followed. This was frightening in and of itself. Even if Raz was unconscious, that warm, tickling feeling would still be there. Now, it was as if he were telepathically trying to contact an inanimate object.

_God damn… Raz, answer me! This is no time for play! If you don't answer right now, then… then you're fired! That's right, you will be officially _kicked out_ of the Psychonauts_! …It was quiet. Sasha was forced to admit the truth to himself as the muteness persisted. Raz, being the kind of person he was, would have done almost anything to secure his position in the Psychonauts. He wasn't answering because he _couldn't_ answer. But if there was no telepathic connection, then that left only one alternative he knew of, shocking as it was.

He had died.

Slowly, his fingers shaking very slightly, he cut off the connection. Or rather, he went through the motions of cutting off a connection. There wasn't any different between being connected and not being connected, not while the other end was entirely unresponsive, so he couldn't tell if he really had.

Razputin was dead.

Killed by the very people they were sent to destroy.

Oh, how thick irony could be. Sasha wasn't sure if he would laugh or cry.

"Milla," he called out to the other agent, duty-bound to inform her of the news. However, as he looked around, he saw that she had beaten him to the punch. She was already racing off for the forest, and Sasha had no choice but to follow.

Blood. It was everywhere; the snow seemed to be positively oozing it. What was worse, though, were the traces of orange aura still weaving through them, like the embers of a dying fire. All over were glowing, painful remnants, the type of which only a psychic could see. All over the forest were splattered fields of orange and red.

It was so much like a fire that, at first, Milla wanted to scream. The unbelievable _déjà vu _of it all tore at her; history seemed to be repeating itself. First the orphanage… now this? This couldn't be happening! The thought of that infamous fire happening again was almost too much to bear, and made her Nightmares claw at their cage with renewed vigor.

"Razputin…" she whispered, walking hypnotically to the by far largest pool. She passed by a tree with a light red twinge and amber hue about it, then two more puddles with frantically dimming hues. Finally, she came up to it, the large spot sparkling tawny, the sparks of it jumping up into the air, less and less high as it, too, died off. Still, it had the brightest and biggest glow of them all, making the others look like orange pinpricks.

She crouched down next to the bitter remains; not even minding as some of the slushy-like snow soaked her dress hem red. Sasha came and stood mutely beside her, trying his best to remain stoic for both of them. Behind them, the wind blew ever fiercer, and some small animal dived into the thicker trees with a soft crunching noise.

Milla reached her hand up, two shaking fingers already pulled into a 'peace' sign. Sasha, knowing what she was planning to do, responded by gently grabbing her wrist. She looked up at him, purely questioning, like a toddler.

"I'll do it. You shouldn't see it," he responded to her look and unspoken question, raising up his own fingers and preparing clairvoyance. In response to this, however, Milla took her wrist back and shook her head.

"No. I want to know." Sasha stared at her for a second or two, then nodded. Milla didn't smile at him, but her eyes told him that she was relieved, even as she readied her own psychic power.

It's a common fact that the viewpoint of someone can be seen sometimes through something close to them—this could be an item, but an actual part of the body (like blood), if caught soon enough that it still has their aura, can also be used. However, if the person or their aura dies, then the item instead shows their most recent memories from their viewpoint. Psychic scientists have used this method for carbon dating for many years, though it has remained unaware of by normal scientists.

Milla was hoping to use this to her advantage as she focused her energy on the blood. Either way, it was beneficial. If, on some odd chance, Razputin were still alive, then they would be able to see from his viewpoint. However, if he was not, then they'd at least be able to find out who did it and how.

A long silence followed as Milla used her clairvoyance, during which Sasha watched on patiently. Her face was a mask of Zen (though troubled Zen), her body remaining perfectly still. Then, just as Sasha was about to shake her shoulder to get her to wake up, her face twisted into a pained scowl. This worsened into a horrible grimace, and her body started shaking fiercely. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she began mumbling weird things, growing louder and louder.

"No… Stop it… Let him go… No… Help me… Someone, help me… Stop it… No… _No_… Sasha! Sasha_, help me_! _He's going to die, can't you see that_?! _They're going to kill him_! _Sasha_! _SASHA_!"

"_Milla_!" Sasha barked out, deciding the Brazilian agent had seen enough. She stopped at once, her eyes snapping open to reveal dilated pupils darting back and forth rapidly. She gasped for air, sweating and shivering. Beside her, Sasha crouched down to her level, eyes widened slightly with concern behind his sunglasses. Finally, after what seemed like hours at least, Milla regained her composure.

"…It was _them_…" she mumbled, her voice creaking like a poorly oiled doorway. Sasha didn't need to ask to know who she was talking about. The orator's running had told them all they needed to know.

_For all we know, we could be setting ourselves up._

Sasha hated it when he was right. Being naturally rather pessimistic, bad things tended to happen when he was right. Bad things like Oleander's infamous death tanks. Bad things like blood that was colored like fire. Bad things like breaking Milla's heart, for not even the first time. She had healed once—could she again? What would Lili think? How could they tell Raz's friends? Why wasn't there a body?

"Why would they do this?" Milla asked again, her voice becoming gradually less shaky. Sasha cast a glance her way, raising an eyebrow. She shivered in response, wrapping her arms around her knees in an infamous self-protective pose. Sasha mused to himself about that; it seemed that, with Raz gone, her own self seemed to be the only thing she had left. Sure, she had him there, but what good was an apathetic German man like him?

_Because if anything happened to you two, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself._

Once again, Sasha cursed his slip-up. Just great—euphoric, really. Now, Milla would believe that, doubtlessly, which bothered him to no end. She had no room in her heart just then to worry about if her partner was OK, especially since he could take care of himself just fine. She had to take care of the mourning for them, as Sasha still had his role to play. Just for the other agents, he had to pretend to be a rock of a man, immovable, emotionless. Someone had to be the detective, the person who reported details flawlessly and unbiasedly while the others were free to break down. Only when he was alone—then, and no other time—would he be able to show the feelings he kept locked up tightly in his mental cube, which was really just a cage with no bars.

He wondered if he would cry. He hadn't cried since he was at most eight, but he had never had a traumatic loss since then. Razputin had been his dependent, his star pupil, the kind of person who would approach Sasha's science fixation with shining eyes and a crazed grin. Sasha had remarked to the other councilors—on their casual occasions, sipping coffee and munching corn on the tables beside the Main Lodge—that he had found this "annoying". Raz's—and the other children's—limitless energy and enthusiasm, his witty remarks—though sometimes nothing more than horrible puns—that strange way he kept compulsively putting on and removing his goggles… He claimed they were negative traits. He was lying—Raz just wasn't Raz if he didn't do those kinds of things.

Sasha wondered how that worked. He would have doubtlessly traded his own life for Razputin's, were things to come to that, but on the other hand, he would do that for anyone that much younger than him. He had liked having the goggled child around when working, but that could just as easily have been a friendship—even an acquaintanceship. Still, it felt closer than that. On the other hand, he felt no sexual desires towards Raz, and ultimately _loathed_ pedophilia in any case, so it wasn't that close.

Though, it was strange. Somewhere, he remembered, buried deep within his cage-cube, was a peculiar figment he couldn't seem to bring himself to clean out. It wasn't nearly as sketchy or neon-colored as the other figments—it hung there like a perfect photograph. In it, he saw the three agents themselves, standing together as if for the photo the figment seemed like. He and Milla had their arms on each other's waists, grinning cheezily—stupidly, even—at the camera. Between them stood Raz, grinning like he had won the lottery.

It looked exactly like a family photograph. In some dusty corner of his mind, a tiny part of his mind wanted for them to be a family—father, wife, and son. But that was impossible, so he kept the artistic figment locked tight. Milla didn't love him in that way, he knew. She was always on the lookout for someone else; someone like the Brazilian men back home that admired her looks and weren't shy about it. And Raz already had (had) a family, one that loved him very much.

And, in any case, the evidence all pointed to his death with glaring orange and red neon signs, so that cut off the idea entirely. He was gone, and Milla was perilously close to a total mental breakdown. Sasha's surrogate family never seemed so dysfunctional.

…He would have to kill that orator. Kill him, slowly and painfully, dragging out each bloody note like a sad tune on a violin. In a bizarrely poetic way, he considered the 'tune' a requiem, of sorts. The requiem of innocence.

"Has he moved at all?" Katherine asked her husband of twenty years, calling over in her whispery voice from the hall. Just beyond a half-open door at the end of the hall, Daniel sat on the side of a tan queen-sized guest bed, normally reserved for Katherine's sister, who occasionally vacationed with them.

The room was kind of small, with peach-colored wallpaper and sandy white shaft blinds over the two windows—one on the right and left walls. Tucked into the upper right corner was the large bed, designed with elm head and foot boards and little decorative pillows in shades of yellow to brown. To the left of the bed was a deep brown nightstand with a warm-colored Tiffany lamp (surprisingly not that tacky) and a few other bits of junk strewn about it, including the boy's helmet and goggles. Beyond that was a curved black desk, lightly sprinkled with rose-petal stationary, a version of Pocket Battleship, and a silver portable TV. The only other furniture were two bookshelves perpendicular to each other in the lower left corner (with a comfortable black chair and wooden side desk in front of them), and a shelf full of knickknacks on the southernmost wall to the right. The carpet was plush and a pale tan, almost white, with surprisingly little stains.

Daniel turned to their issue at hand, biting his lip, as was a nervous habit of his. Once again, he was struck by how positively puny he seemed, his pale and bruised head and ruffled shock of purplish hair sticking out oddly from a pile of blankets and comforters (_stunted growth… psitanium… applesauce…_). He rasped in air painfully even as he slept, as if suffering from a bad asthma attack. Still, aside from the shaky rising and falling of his thin stomach from below piles of blankets, bandages, and a few hastily thrown together braces, he hadn't so much as twitched.

"No. Not yet. He does seem to be getting a little more color, though." Daniel wasn't lying. The stranger's lips had gone from tinted blue to a pale salmon, and his face was slowly returning to its peachy-pink previous state. Aside from the deep shadows under his eyes and jaw, and two parallel cuts on his forehead, he seemed to be going back to normal—or as normal as Katherine and Daniel could estimate.

There was a creak; the door opened all the way, and Katherine nervously strode in, wringing her hands as if she were facing a punishment for something she did. Her eyes darted between the other two faces, anxious and concerned.

"Did you call 911?" Daniel asked, in a voice that was not at all demanding. Instead, it came out low and calm, trying to influence her into following his example. She shook her head, in tiny, quick movements. Before Daniel could question her further, she spoke for herself.

"The storm's pretty bad down near town. They can't get any calls through, even for emergency situations." Daniel sighed—more resigned than disappointed, as he had half-expected that to happen—and turn to the window on the left. The curtains were drawn back a few inches, and from beyond them, he could see snowflakes that flashes white as they caught the moonlight slap against the glass in thick waves, like rain. Other than them, though, the entirety of the outside world was black as coal. The wind, though, made the cabin creak and groan loudly, howling like an animal. Daniel didn't want to think about how cold it must have been.

"Makes sense," Daniel finally admitted, even though he didn't like it. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his face with one hand. "Though… God damn… what a time to go on vacation." Katherine laughed; light, tinkling, and just a tiny bit disturbed.

"It's alright, Danny. We're lucky. We did a good thing, preventing a mu… something bad from happening. I'm sure David will be grateful." Daniel nodded, distractedly, then paused at her sentence.

"Wait… David? Who's David? I don't know anyone with that name." Katherine blushed heavily, her cheeks staining pink. She smiled guiltily, her eyes darting again.

"Uh, it's just… I think it's a nice name, don't you?" It took Daniel a full three seconds to make the connection. Once he did, though, his eyes lit up with surprise, and Katherine blushed deeper.

"You… named…? Katherine, he's not some sort of puppy! You can't _do _that to someone else's child!" He slapped his forehead (gently), muttering under his breath while Katherine giggled. Finally, after a few seconds, Daniel regained himself, shaking his head lightly.

"Fine. David, then. Not like it matters right now. He'll probably end up being French or Russian, anyway, and having some sort of unpronounceable foreign name, like… D'artagnan or Rasputin. Might as well enjoy something simple while it lasts." Katherine brushed this off with a wave of her hand.

"Daniel, you worry too much. What sort of strange parent would name their son Rasputin? Really, now."

* * *

_See, I'm trying something different for once! Instead of a cliffhanger, we have... A WITTY PUN! Ha, ha, ha. I slay me. xD Don't worry, I'll get to the comments... er... sooner or later!_

_TO BE CONTINUED!_


	5. One is Silver

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_OUR MUTUAL ENEMY: THE MUSICAL!_**

**_SCENE... UH... SEVEN?_**

**_PSYCHO'S ROOM_**

**_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_PSYCHO: Hey, y'all. Just wanted to make a few announcements before we start. Pulls out a sheet of paper and clears throat A-hem. Okay. _**

**_FIRST! I have a poll. On my main page. So if you have the time... YER OPINIONS COULD SWAY THE FUTURE!! You'd better do it; it's as close to being psychic as you might get. Ha._**

**_SECOND! Seriously, where are all of the OTHER Psychonauts fanfiction writers? This place is like a graveyard, and that makes me sad._**

**_THIRD! I'm thinking about changing the title on this fic. What does everyone think? Do you like 'Our Mutual Enemy' or maybe something like, 'Situation Critical'? Your opinions MATTER._**

**_FORTH (FOURTH?)! There is no spoon. And that is all, so good day to you._**

* * *

"I'm sorry, kid, but this passport seems to be outdated," the receptionist at airport customs drawled to Alex, sounding incredibly bored and uninterested. "And also, you spelled 'passport' with a 'b'. I almost feel bad for this." Alex growled under his breath, his fists clenching just below the counter.

"The… _hell_… lady? Since when do I need a damn _passport_ to get to Canada, anyway? I've only got ten minutes until my plane leaves. I don't have _time_ to run down and mail order a new one." The receptionist seemed to positively smirk at this, her eyes turning evil beneath her bouncy red hair, tied up into two loose pigtails. She couldn't have been much older than seventeen.

"Well, I could let it slide…" she drew a finger leisurely across the black booklet in a sliding motion. "…But I don't really feel the need to do that. Maybe you can catch another plane—in about three more years, kid. Just be grateful I don't feel like turning you into the cops, seeing as you're trying to travel alone on a plane, underage, and you probably drove here, _underage_. I'm not nearly that gullible." Alex opened his mouth to issue out a venomous comeback, grabbing for his passport, when a third voice suddenly interrupted.

"But he's not alone, ma'am. He's with me." Alex whipped around, surprised, certain that no one knew where he was going…

No one he knew was standing behind him. Instead, he saw a gleeful-looking old man, with great tufts of white hair that seemed determined to flee their way off of the top of his head and just hung around his ears in a half-ring. He had big eyes, a big nose, and a big moustache. He wore a red, plaid shirt and a deep blue, sleeveless jacket over that, both behind a clunky, black, cube-like hiking backpack. Below that he wore simple, frayed jeans and brown loafers. The receptionist took one look at him, then her personality 180'd. She became nervous, flustered and stuttering her words as she shuffled frantically through her notes.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course, Professor Cruller—"

"_You will call me_ _ADMIRAL_!" Both Alex and the receptionist jumped at this.

"Y-yes, admiral, sir. Of course. So you two want to catch the one AM flight to Nova Scotia, right? Well, that shouldn't be a problem at all. You'd better hurry through the terminal—no delays today. Landing will be a bitch—sorry, a _pain_—I've heard. Bad weather. Oh, uh, I'd better stop blathering. You have to get going. Go!" She waved her hands, but neither Admiral Cruller nor Alex moved. Cruller slapped at his backpack, coughing a little.

"Right. Sorry about that outburst, there… it's been some day. Let's head off, then." He began strolling casually towards the runway, but Alex hesitated.

"Hey… you're not some kind of sexual molester, are you?" Cruller just laughed heartily at this, holding his gut as he walked. Not his first choice for person to sit next to for a two-hour flight, sure, but if it got him on the plane… Alex rolled his eyes and ran after him.

He got about four steps before a voice called back to him, still somehow coming across as incredibly sarcastic and bitter.

"Don't forget your _passbort_." Grumbling swear words under his breath, Alex turned back and grabbed it before heading off.

* * *

It had been some time, but somehow, Sasha had managed to convince Milla to stand up and walk away from the scene. The orange had died down almost entirely, aside from an occasional flicker. Soon, it would disappear entirely, and all non-DNA traces of Razputin would be gone. It would be like he was never there. But was it like he was safe at Whispering Rock, enjoying hot cocoa with his girlfriend… or like he was just gone? Sasha didn't know what he would think once the orange died out entirely, but he was leaning towards the latter.

_Seriously, though, why are you all paranoid now? You must have had a billion missions like this before._

No. He'd never had a mission like this before. He'd never lost anyone close to him—mother aside. He'd never had something turn out so badly—what was worse, he could have stopped it. He knew it was wrong, what was happening… but he still let Raz run obliviously off. _Saukerl_ that he was, he had purposely let Raz face that issue alone, thinking that there might be a good lesson in it, even. There was, but it was for him.

Sasha Nein wondered where the body might have been as he led Milla back to the jet. He couldn't see any reason why _they_ would want to take it, but it could be for many reasons—a sacrifice, an effigy, a trophy, some form of fetish, a revenge ploy… Sasha knew he should respect Razputin even after death… but what good was a body without life? And he needed to be there to help Milla, not to go on a scavenger hunt for a useless pile of flesh, blood, and bright red goggles.

Well, at least _they_ had spared them that much. He shuddered to think of what would happen had the corpse actually been in that forest, all glassy, lifeless green eyes and perfect silence. Dealing with the blood—confirming it—had been hard enough. He didn't want to have to deal with _that_ part. So, in a way, he was grateful.

(FACT: At that point in time, Raz was actually having a very pleasant, but weird, dream about fighting against Napoleon and Jasper in a game of Marco Polo.)

"What do we do now?" Milla whimpered out once, just before they reached the jet. Sasha muttered his answer.

"I tell HQ about what happened. Then we continue with the mission. That hasn't changed." Milla bit her lip, deep in thought. Finally, after about ten long seconds, she spoke up.

"He wasn't there, though. Sasha… do you think he could still be alive? I mean, even if you or I can't sense his aura… you think there's a chance? Any at all?" Sasha stared up the hill, not meeting Milla's saddened, hopeful gaze. Oh, he wanted to hope, too. He wanted to believe, with all of his heart and soul, that Raz was still alive, somewhere. He could be bleeding, broken, mentally shattered like Cruller, but as long as he was still breathing… He couldn't do it. He couldn't even hope for that fantasy to be real. Because, if he did, it would only make the pain afterward that much harder to bear. He couldn't bring his hopes up like that. And, even if it was incredibly vain, even if it did make him a _archloch, _he couldn't let Milla mindlessly hope for that, either.

"No, Milla. I don't."

* * *

Razputin Aquato was running. He didn't know from what, exactly, just that he had to get away at all costs. Adrenaline poured like liquid steel through his veins, fueling him as he tore down an endless white hallway.

All around him, vibrant, sickly colors tore out from the pallid walls. Green, twisted cartoon faces grinned sadistically at his efforts, glowing red blood dripping out from spiked teeth. Silver doors with barred windows grew up from the sides like mushrooms. Purple signs showed only a few socialist-parodying words, again and again: SURRENDER. OBEY. SUBMIT. SURRENDER. OBEY. SUBMIT.

Raz tore at a few of the doors that came up as he passed, their silvery coating shining like knife blades. However, they remained locked tight, their screaming prisoners cowering beyond them, safe.

"Let me in!" he found himself screaming, his voice squeaking like a rusty hinge as he pounded vainly on one of the shining doors. "They're coming! Can't you hear them?" He wondered what he was talking about, of course, but at the same time, he knew. The shadows in the hall were thickening, becoming a deep, soupy black, as they swept closer.

And Raz was running again.

This time, he didn't bother with the doors. If even one was locked, he knew, they all would be. They were all the same—exactly the same—after all. The ground wound in a reel-like way, nothing but polished tile floors, silver doors, neon signs. SURRENDER. OBEY. SUBMIT. Raz wished he was faster. He wished he had more muscle, instead of bony, skinny limbs that got tired too fast.

"Is anyone there!?" he cried out desperately down the hall, down to the dusty gray shadows that seemed so bright compared to the ones consuming the path behind him. Down to the series of doors, behind which psychopaths wailed mournfully, their collective cries creating a disturbing siren noise. Raz gasped in sickly-sweet air, forcing his legs forward, faster… _faster_…

There was something coming up over the horizon, the latter of which twisted up at the edges, more and more the further down it got, as if the hall was curling in on itself. Raz attempted to come to a halt at this, throwing his feet to the side and trying to catch a grip on the slick tiles. He quickly slid to a stop, his eyes wide and heart thudding in his ears.

It was a pair of nurses, done up in white garbs so bright they almost glowed. Together, they pushed a squeaky gurney, masks over their mouths and their hair overshadowing their eyes. The gurney was empty, its straps dangling off the side like a corpse's arms. The walls were closing in; nurses on one side, shadows on the other. Raz could see traces of the darkness sketching their way across the walls and leaking between the tiles ahead of their master—or masters. He whipped his head back and forth, eyes bulging and body jerking like a cornered animal.

The nurses came up to him before the shadows did; the latter of which seemed to have slowed down considerably, knowing Razputin was between a rock and a hard place. They didn't seem to speak, though, their words instead filling Raz's head in their icy, echoing way.

_What has happened? How did you get out? We keep the doors locked very tightly. _This was the nurse on Raz's right, the one with long, blonde hair. Raz glared at her, trying in vain to not look scared.

"Where am I? What the _hell_ is going on?" The shadows crept closer; he shivered as traces of it brushed against the soles of his shoes. The very air around _it_ felt tangible, pressing against him like a wall while running frozen fingers up and down his spine like a lover.

_Oh, my. He's so much more lost than the rest of them. _This voice belonged to the other nurse, the one with short black hair and olive skin.

_Poor baby. Do not fret, though, sister. We will be able to fix him._

_Then he will be just like the other patients. _

Raz could see the end of the hallway behind the nurses, he noticed, from ceiling to wall. It was nothing; there was no door, no glowing exit sign. Just two more silver doors on either side, then a mint green wall and one more sign. This was the biggest of them all, a purple sort of thing, with all three words scrawled on it in red: SURRENDER. OBEY. SUBMIT. And beyond that, two nurses and a gurney.

"_No_! I don't want to be like them!" Raz objected loudly, even now getting an odd feeling like he was being 'whiny'. The nurses clicked their tongues in disapproval.

_Something wrong in his head, clearly._

_He speaks all wrong. He won't listen. He won't obey._

_We'll do the best we can._

They swept forward, just billowing white smocks and bony hands. Raz yelped as he was torn away from the shadow wall, its sensual touch across his spine lost in an instant. Instead, he was dragged by his wrists across the gurney's surface, its cold, sandpapery sheets leaving fabric burns across his skin. He screamed and kicked out at them, but they held on with bitter determination, not even noticing his attacks even when he did manage to hit one of them.

_Oh, dear. He's completely defective. We'll have to work quickly, before his head gets any more of those ideas. He's in danger of becoming like them._

_How terrible._

_That poor little baby._

They wound belt-like, leathery straps across his wrists and ankles—they were too tight and he hated them. He felt vulnerable, the ice of the gurney carving a new tune into the sensitive skin of his back even through his jacket and sweater. He twisted and squirmed against the restraints, his eyes wide and lungs tightening. The belts made odd, rattling noises as he shook them, but there didn't seem to be anything in them that could make that noise.

The siren of voices kept going, blaring for… for something. Help? Or just… less of this? Raz didn't know. For all he knew, it could have been for more. More drugs, please, Mrs. Nurse-lady. Or else the bad thoughts might come back.

After a few seconds of fruitless struggling, Raz came to lift his head. He stared straight ahead, alert and kicking himself internally for his own helplessness. The shadows were moving in, and he could see them clearly. But it wasn't a 'them', or an 'it'. It was a 'he'.

It was John Castleton. Or, rather, it was a distorted version of him known to Raz only as 'the orator', with a sick grin and gleaming red eyes. His hair and clothing were pitch black, molding into and out of the shadows surrounding him. Only his eyes and teeth stood out—his teeth were too sharp. Too animalistic. And his eyes looked like something you'd see on something with a horrible case of rabies. Yet, in a way, that was beneath the surface. Outside, he seemed still and calm, a hunter approaching his prey.

Razputin had just made his first Nightmare, a sadistic creature specially designed to the owner's main weaknesses. Raz wondered where the water was at in a tiny section of his mind.

_We'll have to shut down almost everything._

_But we can't let him become one of them._

_No. Not a psychic. We can't have that, no no_. They hissed at the name, their usual spoken conversation of three statements complete. Raz shot them a panicked look, then resumed his pointless fight against his mentality. He remembered another comment he had heard on his first day at summer camp, something he had overheard on accident after his unorthodox introduction.

**He's got mental defenses like I've never seen in someone so young.**

**Armored like a **_**tank**_**!**

Once again, irony played a bitter role in his life. Who would have thought he'd end up fighting it himself? But, on the other hand, almost everyone did in some point in their lives. Each nightmare you've had is a fight against your own psyche, a desperate struggle against your own inner demons—and by that, I mean the non-exploding kind.

But back to Raz.

Raz looked up into the vicious face of the orator, which was formed into some sort of lurid, sly grin. In response, Raz scowled, his green eyes sparking and face red with anger. He was reminded of the time he had last seen the orator, aside from after dying (_dying?_). He had been full of hate then, too, enough to force him to run after him and try to 'catch' him like a common, unarmed crook.

…He could really be pretty stupid at times.

The orator's smile widened a little, becoming just a little more like the notably warm one he had first given the agents. His red eyes shone just a little, becoming just a bit more like their usual chocolate-brown. He took a few steps closer, his clean-shaven face coming into stark, but still heavily shadowed, clarity.

Raz shuddered as he felt a cold hand press against his cheek, almost able to feel ice crystals forming against it. The hand moved down the side of his face slowly, gradually pulling up until only two fingers brushed against his chin, then rose away.

"My poor, lost lamb," he sighed. Raz growled at him (quite loudly, too), and gave another heated jerk at his restraints. Of course, it was useless, and Raz ground his teeth together in frustration. That frustration was good; he found it easier to focus on the anger than how much this dream was starting to scare him.

"Even now, in the twisted embrace of Hell, you continue to resist us. Why, Razputin? What do I have to do to save you? I've offered you my kindness, my anger, and my sorrow, yet you refuse them all so adamantly. What is it about our utopia that offends you so? Why would you give it all up, for this? For these padlocked silver doors and horrible noises. I just cannot understand you." His hand was on Raz's head as he spoke, gently running across the coarse fabric and heavy seams of his helmet. "I don't want you to suffer like this. Just come with me. Why won't you even do that much?"

Raz paused for a few seconds, contemplating. Then, with deadly accurate, obviously practiced precision, he spat directly between the orator's eyes. The man reeled back, hands hovering an inch from his dark skin, while Raz grinned devilishly.

"Well, it just might have something to do with the fact that you're insane, sadistic, creepy… oh, and you tried to kill me a little bit. Not to mention the fact that your voice annoys the hell out of me, and your attitude makes me feel all racist inside. Need I go on?" Raz smirked as the orator frantically wiped off his face, which was a caricature of disgust. Too soon, however, he straightened up, serious once again. Coughing into his slightly damp shirtsleeve, he glared at Raz.

"…Alright, then. You're firm-set, much as I loathe admitting it. It seems you really do need to be repaired." Raz's eyes widened at these words. Behind him he heard a sound like two pieces of metal being scraped together, as if on cue, but he couldn't turn around to see what was causing it.

"Woah, wait. Repaired? What do you mean, _repaired_? Do I look broken to you?" One of the nurses—the blonde one—walked up to his side. Raz craned his neck over, and was horror-struck to see that she was holding a metal tray. On it were scattered metal tools, each one razor-sharp and finely polished to a robotic sheen. Scalpels, drills, dentist's hooks, syringes…

"Don't worry," the orator answered a question that hadn't been asked. "After the first few minutes, some people say they lose all feeling. Maybe you'll be fortunate." The other nurse pressed a firm, pale hand against his stomach, her own scalpel at the ready in her hand. Raz felt sweat tickle his brow, and he jerked away from her on instinct. He struggled and flailed, but to no avail. The belts refused to give, and she wasn't going to let up.

"The first repair should be made in the heart. It isn't regulated the way I want it," were the last words Raz heard, before one more scream joined the siren echoing throughout the hall.

Surrender. Obey. Submit.

Good boy.

* * *

_Are you scared now? Don't worry, though; it's just a dream. A strange, creepy-as-hell dream, but a dream nevertheless. I've always dreamed (delicious pun) of doing a biopunk scene like this. And now it has come true. So what will happen now? Will Sasha and Milla find out about Raz's survival? What does Alex need to do in Nova Scotia, and how does Cruller fit into it? What will happen next in Raz's nightmare? Find out... NEXT TIME! Ha, I'm so evil._

_Remember to review and, if you have the time, stop by my profile and cast your vote! SHOULD I make a Psyhconauts doujin? DO you like salad? SHOULD Sephiroth be president for '08? Only time... will tell._


	6. And the Other Gold

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_COLORO PLUVIA-THE MUSICAL!_**

**_A NEW YORK SUBWAY STATION_**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_(FADE IN. PSYCHO can be seen, oddly with 5 o'clock shadow, holding out a tin can to passerby.)_**

**_PSYCHO: -Grins at a woman- Change? -Woman walks by; PSYCHO frowns; man comes by and she smiles again- Change? -Repeat three times or until golden brown- _**

**_(PSYCHO sighs, then turns to the audience)_**

**_PSYCHO: No, I don't really need any change. I'm just here to take up that other hobo's spot. Things have been pretty chillax here. There's no real news I feel the need to tell you, other than remember to cast your votes at my profile's poll, and enjoy the latest chapter. This chapter contains some nice things, such as_**

**_-Horrible mutilation!_**

**_-Emotional trauma!_**

**_-Mentions of porn!_**

**_-Bad language!_**

**_-Occasional OOCness!_**

**_-Neo-Nazis!_**

**_-Organs!_**

**_-Questionably sane thought processes!_**

**_-Talking to yourself!_**

**_-Mentions of orgasms!_**

**_-Long bullet-point lists in the Author's Notes!_**

**_-And the final member of the WRB (Whispering Rock Branch)!_**

**_So, yes. You have fun now, okay? 8D_**

**_(PSYCHO turns away again and resumes asking for change. Suddenly she stops, turns around, screams, and takes off running. A HOBO bursts onto the stage, yelling obscenities and flailing around a Molotov Cocktail. They run offstage, and the scene FADES OUT.)_**

--

Alex Taylor and Admiral Cruller (_Yaaaay, Mr. Cruller!_) made their way onto the plane—a white, shiny thing with _Alpha Lines_ printed on the side in blue—with nary a sideways glance or under-the-breath comment. Alex had to admit, if nothing else, this was turning out a lot better than his other plan. Now, to everyone else who had an incredible urge to go to Canada that day, they were just That Weird Kid With The Bad Haircut and That Old Man With Even Worse Hair, copyright to the gossip corporations of Havengräde.

Well, Alex had to admit, the plane was nice. Even as he shuffled behind the Admiral, hands in his uniform's pockets, he couldn't help but admire the pretty interior. The floor was carpet; blue, and plush against his shoes. It felt like stepping on sand, almost. The seats were a dark gray, with white rims and white trays you could put in front of them come tea-time, like a high chair without the stilts. The walls were a plain blue, cut off only by the seats, windows, and a long, white stripe across the lower quarter of them. Alex noticed that the seats had a little gray pillow each on them, as well as magazines tucked in pockets on the back. (They were clever issues, too, with familiar titles such as _TIME _and _Scientific Discovery_. No porn here, fellows.)

"Hey, Morry. Got an extra seat or two you can donate to our asses' cause?" Cruller piped up to someone a row ahead of Alex, who he couldn't see. He craned his neck as far as he could, but couldn't see much past Cruller's curly plume.

"Ha, ha, soldier. Are you going to stand down anytime soon, or just take up hall space?" Cruller (Admiral Cruller? Professor Cruller? Soldier Cruller? Was this guy the ugly, old, male Barbie doll of the modern world?) laughed in a raspy voice, then turned to Alex and beckoned him forward with his hand. Alex blinked noticeably, then followed. Looks like he was sitting with them along with being their pseudo-grandson/son/whatever. Might as well meet Papa.

Oh, God, he was short. And people questioned _Alex_ a lot when he tried to take a flight. This guy must have been interrogated by all the Neo-Nazis of Havengräde (yes, I am perfectly aware of the German origins of both words, _thank you very much_). Not to mention the Bureau of Making Sure There Are No Homicides On This Plane. Alex wondered how many AK-47's and hand grenades had been pulled from this guy's uniform. Yes, that's right. He was wearing a full, light tan, Army _uniform_—medals and all—on a commercial airline. If Alex was not mistaken, the short, bald man with russet skin, huge teeth, and a pointy hat also had on a ring of machine gun ammunition like a sash. God forbid any normal man should piss him off.

But Alex was no normal man. He was less than one percent of the population, able to bend spoons with his mind _and_ vice-versa of that sentence. He was also a riot at parties.

"What are you gawking at? You ought to give me _fifty_ for that!" Alex flinched a little at this, startled, then slowly slid into the aisle seat amidst a blood clot-inducing glare. He didn't even grace the short man with an answer, but sighed as the plane began to rumble and move.

It was going to be a long trip.

--

Raz wasn't sure how much time had passed. Time meant nothing here; minutes and seconds blended into each other in such a way that a point in time could be either hours or seconds long, given the situation. The passing of the hours (Minutes? Days?) were marked only by flashes of frantic memory, which jerked his tiny body into disturbed, almost spastic shivers.

Within the flashes, like hazy jumps of a skipping DVD, he saw shadowed faces and towering figures. He saw Cheshire Cat grins curling up below malevolent golden eyes. He saw bony fingers entwined around sharp, jagged objects that glinted scarlet and drippy in the thespian light. He saw red everywhere, soaking up their arms like pairs of gloves, staining his clothes, and choking him as he wailed. He saw them cutting fleshy red organs from pulsing red veins and arteries, splashing more red against the gurney and floor like spilled paint across a canvas. Another jerk, and scarred, bloody arms tightened around blotted knees from the memory.

He heard things, too, from the flashbacks. He heard light, maniac mutterings in his head, like the callings of some tired bird. He heard a low, deep voice growling out in contrast to the bird-voices at some points. He heard repetitive splashes, like rain. He heard sounds he couldn't bear to try and place: grating wood-sawing, wet ripping and snapping, gooey squelches. And, as always, the screaming.

More flashes and jerks abounded. Shining silver tools—cold red and yellow eyes—a needle and thread—agony. He had felt every step, every sadistic jab and tear. He had felt all of it. It was merciless. First them taking him apart, rearranging him, then sewing him back together again. He felt—and probably looked—like Frankenstein's monster.

But not here.

No, here, behind one of the infinite silver doors and their grated windows, he was safe. Locked behind a border of rough tan padding like a cubical barricade, here, they couldn't hurt him anymore. The door itself melted into the padding, as if it never was there at all. It may have been a place for crazy people—the infamous padded room—but it was blissfully empty. Even the screams of the other patients were heavily muffled by the cottony stuff.

Raz sighed, pressing his cheek against the cold floor. He was curled up into a tiny ball on the ground in the far right corner, shivering and pressing his forehead against the damp fabric of his cloth-covered knees. His eyes were wide and panicky, his head jerking up every few seconds and darting around to make _absolutely sure_ no one was in here with him. That would be horrible… but… on the same token, Raz really did want someone to come and take him home. He didn't know what 'home' was, only that it was better than this place. And he wanted that so much.

"I'm not crazy…" Raz spoke to himself, his voice nothing but a husky whisper. "I'm not broken… I just want to go home…" He loosened his arms very gradually from his legs, moving one to curl slightly above them and the other to rest on top of them. Slowly, slowly, his eyelids fell, weighing down against his eyes. He was safe now… he should rest…

Raz was just about to fall asleep when he heard a sudden noise. A loud clanging rose up from the opposite side of the room than the one he was facing, and the outside sounds increased to a startling pitch. Raz stumbled to his feet, startled, as the echoes of the crash reverberated through the padded room. Eyes even wider than before, Raz whipped around to face this new challenge.

There were two—a black haired man and a brunette lady. The man was in a nice green sweater and dark leather coat; he also had on dark pants and sunglasses. The woman had long, dangling earrings and a seventies-style red and orange dress designed with a huge spiral, as well as white gloves and boots and pink tights. Raz recognized them, the déjà vu taunting him, but he couldn't remember how. Instead, he stepped back a nervous, twitchy pace, eyes darting for a place to hide.

A long pause commenced. The two seemed to be staring at him strangely; likewise, he regarded them with fright. His mind was racing: who were these two? Why did he feel like he knew them? What did they want with him?

The man took a step closer, one hand raised just a little and oddly cautious. Raz jump-stepped back.

"Ach," the man spoke, in a slight German accent. "What _is_ that thing?" He took another step forward, a hand reaching up to his forehead. Raz was running out of room to retreat. In the same way, something about what the German said made him very sad and concerned. Didn't he… didn't he recognize him? Raz could have sworn, even when his own memories were blank, surely this man would remember him? He was… special, somehow. That woman, too. They were both important. But… how? His head hurt. In desperation, he turned to the Brazilian, but she just gave him a similar scared look. She stood in the doorway at the time, looking around the hallway for something Raz didn't know about.

"Sasha, darling, let's leave. That one… it looks almost human." Raz blinked at this. Almost? He _was_ human… wasn't he? Couldn't they tell that much for him? Didn't they know that he couldn't figure these things out by himself? He just wanted to go back to sleep. These people were scary. Not as much as the nurses, sure, but still uncomfortable.

"Don't be ridiculous, Milla," Sasha reminded her sharply. "It's just another one of them." Raz opened his mouth, a thousand contradictions to that accusation in his shattered mind. He had to prove to them, somehow, that he _wasn't_ one of them! He was Raz! He was normal!

Nothing came out. Not even a vague whisper. His throat ran dry and tight, and now he was left with his mouth hanging open like a moron. He darted his eyes down to his body, in an effort to see what exactly they were looking at.

He saw scars. Huge, ugly stitches crisscrossed the skin on his arms like a patchwork doll, and he didn't need to lift his shirt to know that they coated his stomach even worse. Browned, dry squares of half-dried blood were spilled all across his clothes, which were ripped and torn, at points, beyond recognition. Certain bits of skin were discolored—bluish, pale, brown, even a few were an ugly black, as if he had been burned. His body was permanently drawn into a position of trying to curl into itself, shaking like a leaf.

Sasha might have been right.

"But, Sasha," Milla began again, stepping into the room. It was starting to get crowded. She looked down at Raz, even crouching on her knees, but she didn't feel the same to him as Sasha did. She felt… confused. Warm and welcoming, though, but not to him. Some other time, perhaps. Now, she was just confused. "He looks a lot like… Razputin."

A long pause. Something clicked in Raz's brain. Yes! _Yes_! He was Razputin! Someone noticed him! At last, someone knew him! He felt like smiling; laughing, even; but his face didn't move. He just continued to stare, from Milla to Sasha and back again.

Sasha sighed, stepping forward, not one, not two, but three large steps. This quickly closed the distance between him and Raz, the latter of which was pressed against the wall as if hoping he could melt right through it if he pressed hard enough. He spread out his hands a little either way, palms against the fabric, in a tight, upside-down 'V'. He stared at Raz for a few seconds longer, his expression hidden behind his sunglasses.

"…Razputin is dead. You know that." He turned to her as he spoke, exposing his back to a stunned Raz. Dead? No… He couldn't be. He was _alive_, dammit! Someone _listen_! They _couldn't_ just leave him here! For God's sake—he was ten years old! _He shouldn't be here_! Someone tell them who he really was, please!

"Oh. Right. I know, it's just… it's hard. I just can't believe he's gone," Milla sighed, forlorn. She stood up again slowly, looking back at Sasha. He regarded her with a cool glance.

"Let's go, Milla." She gave a solemn nod, her eyes cast downwards. Raz just stared. A second passed, then Raz snapped.

"_No, wait_!" he cried, his voice yanking itself free from his throat-deathtrap. He darted forward, one arm outstretched in a desperate attempt to stop those two from leaving. He stretched out for a sleeve, an arm, a pant leg, anything to hold them back and keep him with them. "_I'm Razputin_! _I'm Razputin_! _Please, don't go_!"

His hand passed straight through Sasha's back, swinging in a full arc as if there was nothing there. The images of Sasha and Milla shimmered and wavered, like a reflection in water being hit by a stone.

Then, all of a sudden, they were gone.

The door was shut.

The room was quiet.

Raz stood still for a long while, his hand staying outstretched for something that wasn't there, and possibly never had been. His arm started to get tired, but he didn't notice. He just stared straight at the shut door, disguised almost flawlessly amidst the tan padding.

He was an alone, frightened, disturbed, scarred, and ugly little boy named Razputin that was only known by imaginary people that vanished at a touch. No one loved him—he existed only to be a hideous scientific experiment and to be reminded how insane he really was.

Raz felt tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. He was alone, and would always be alone. He wouldn't be rescued, because no one would come. No one cared for someone like him. Someone who couldn't even talk when he needed to the most. Even as he stood there, the tears fell down his face, leaving tiny wet spots against the ground.

"No… _no_…" Raz threw back his head and screamed, pressing his hands to his scalp, screaming all the harder as he knew no one was there to hear it.

--

"_Gah_!" Raz wasn't exactly sure what just happened, but one second he was standing and screaming at the unfairness of it all… and the next, he was bolting up and wrapped in something warm and fluffy. He sat bolt upright, sweating bullets and gasping in air. He stayed like that for about ten seconds, his mind adamantly refusing to think about what had just happened and his eyes focused straight ahead at a vast column of really dark nothing.

Finally, it clicked. Raz gave a long sigh, sinking back into the bed like a creaky old man. It felt so soft and excellent, like sleeping on kittens. He could even almost hear himself purr, both in relief and contentment.

"It was a dream… Just a dream," Raz muttered to himself in this dizzy voice, his voice sounding almost orgasmic with the relief wearing through his tired veins.

(…Please excuse me while I go shoot myself for using 'Raz' and 'orgasmic' in the same sentence. Thanks… Kay, I'm done. Back to work.)

Raz spent about two beautiful minutes spread out under the sheets, doing nothing more strenuous than breathing deeply and wondering absentmindedly if he should get a pet goldfish. He was just deciding on a name and about to drift off, when his eyes adjusted enough to the darkness to realize something.

This wasn't his room. He didn't even _have_ a room. He lived in a goddamn _caravan_ at home, a cabin at Whispering Rock, and shared hotel rooms or an apartment with Sasha or Milla when with the Psychonauts. There was no loud breathing or snoring from anyone near him, and this place smelled nothing like bug spray and woodsmoke, cheap bar soap and scented shampoo, or sickly-sweet caramel popcorn. It smelled a little like lemon-scented floor polish and musky old books, with just a hint of a copper tang.

Also, it looked nothing like any place he had ever been in before. The door was shut and dark around the cracks, the only light coming from the slight glow of the window, which had its blinds pulled back for no reason. From what he could see, the edges of the panes had frosted over considerably, and the wind was whipping like it had gone mad, sending sheets of white spiraling everywhere. The night was pitch black, aside from the glow of a nearly full moon, which shone in spastic, dancing lights on Raz's sheets between the thick snow. Raz had never seen a full blizzard before, but he was pretty sure this was it.

Still, it wasn't as if he minded that part. The snow made this kind of muting thumping noise against the walls, coupled with a wind that sounded like it was shrieking from a great distance. Minus this, and some clock that was ticking somewhere to his left, and the room was entirely quiet. As it was, the sounds provided just enough noise to fend off loneliness and eerie quiet, but were rhythmic enough and quiet enough to be soothing.

Raz attempted to sit up again after a moment, curious as to where he was. However, most of his body gave an absolutely _huge_ throb of protest at this, causing him to bite his lip down to keep form yelling and fall back. It was then, in that sudden surge of pain, that his memories flooded back, and his eyes widened.

"Sasha! Milla!" he yelled/whispered, keeping his voice down on instinct (he had four siblings at home, and late at night was never a good time to yell _anything_). He then darted his eyes around the room, as if expecting to see the two agents right there with him. No such luck. He was still alone.

Raz wondered what they were doing now. Hmm… well, if they had managed to trace him to the field, then they would have seen the blood and assumed something bad (ha, ha, yeah _right_) had happened. Maybe those stupid white-clothed guys would fight them, and the orator would make some dumb, long speech about Christianity and psychic sin and _Pokemon_. Okay, scratch that last one, but they'd be worried nevertheless. They'd probably think that he'd been kidnapped or something like that…

Raz paused. Just for a second, he considered this. _Had_ he been kidnapped? Was this room some part of those extremists' secret lair? Could it be that, somewhere miles away, Sasha and Milla were combing through the woods for traces of him and HQ was issuing out an Amber Alert?

Well, that could be, but he didn't think so. Somehow he didn't believe that 'the hellspawn' would be left to suffer in a cozy bed in a warm room with nice furniture (despite Sasha's complaints about them, Raz actually was rather fond of Tiffany lamps). And he didn't think he'd be left alone if that were the case, lest he grow bored and blow up the earth with his mind. Not to mention that those guys probably all thought he was dead, anyway. Why patch up a dead body?

_Am I dead, though? _His mind countered with its usual bitter air of pessimism. _Psychology test, Raz: Prove that you exist._

_Prove that I __**don't**__ exist, _he responded.

_I don't have to. That's the cool thing. A positive thought needs to be reassured over and over again. But with a negative thought, you only need one little seed of doubt for it to germinate. _

"Ugh, this is stupid," Raz scoffed aloud. "I'm fighting with my own mind. I don't need to prove anything. I mean, I can see myself just fine. Look at my hand." He pulled his un-braced hand out from under the blankets, then held it just above his lap. Still chortling like an Englishman telling a classy wit, he panned his eyes down to the gloved appendage, waving his fingers as he did so. However, once he caught sight of the hand, all signs of humor abruptly stopped. He stared at it, shock evident on his face. From in his head, he could have sworn he could almost hear his mind laughing.

_I told you so. _

--

_Yay! To be continued! (This is the time when you review, 'kay? KAY?)_


	7. A Milky Shade

**_(The sun is shining over the many, many cornfields of Redcliff County, WI. In one of the empty fields, though, a projecter and log seats are set up, and some people are there, including PSYCHO. As the CAMERA slowly pans across, then in, she turns and grins, holding up a tub of Buttergunky Popcorn.)_**

**_PSYCHO: Movies are fabulous, as I'm sure you know. And this chapter has a bit of that fact reflected in it. And while everyone--EVERYONE--loves a good picture show, some of them are not so child-friendly. Take, for example, Coloro Pluvia. There's a lot of interesting stuff to appease the older viewers, such as: language (including the f-bomb! Gasp!)! Suicide (no one we know, I SWEAR)! Scientific explaination! And a CD101 character making a cameo! _**

**_So for those of you who enjoy those kind of things, read on. For those of you who don't, GO TO HELL--Err, I mean, go... somewhere else. Pansy. We're all here doing COOL stuff, while you're over there with your Power Ranger action figures because you're scared of a little suicide! Yeah, you just do that, you weenie! Go cry to your momma! GO BACK TO YOUR HOME COUNTRY -Insert Hated Country of Choice Here-!!_**

**_...For the rest of you, let's begin. _**

**_(FADE OUT)_**

--

"Oh, Elizabeth, I love you with the burning passion of all of the stars in the universe. But, alas, I cannot be with you, for I could never part with this ocean we stand beside. It has held all of my secrets and hopes and wishes, remaining faithful for as long as I have stared into its cerulean depths so similar to yours. I am sorry, my love."

"Oh, Richard, but you do not love me as much as I you! And if this means I must stay by the ocean, with you, rather than carrying on with my travelling gypsy family, then let me stay forever."

"Oh, Elizabeth, you are truly the heart that beats within me."

"Oh, Richard. But yet, I must confess. I'm… pregnant."

"…Shit. I'm outta' here."

"Oh, Richard, no! Why would you turn on me now, when I need you the most! Richard, why are you running from me? Richard, your house is that way! There's nothing over there but a lot of perilously steep, jagged cliffs! You might want to slow down; lest you go right off the edge! Richard? Richard? Riiiiiichaaaaaard!"

"This movie _sucks_," Alex whined loudly, taking up one of his more annoying habits of kicking the back of the chair of the guy sitting in front of him. Much as he hated to admit it, growing up as the only psychic in his family (aside from his grandparents) did tend to lead to him being just a bit… spoiled, which in turn led to such habits as the kicking of chairs. Honestly, it was only the stern eye of the Psychonauts organization that kept him 'in check' most of the time. To be fair, though, the vast majority of psychics from non-psychic families were that way.

"I'm sorry, Rich." The man was growling into his navy blue cellphone in a voice strained as a violin note. It was clear that he was near his breaking point, and slid closer every time his attempts to talk to 'Rich' were cut off by another kick to his shoulder blades. "Look, I can't—talk to you. I'm—on a plane, and—some _jackass_ in back—won't stop—kicking—my—_goddamn_—_chair_—" He finally let out an angry growl, twisting around to shoot a death glare at Alex.

"_Stop kicking my motherfucking chair_!" he yelled out, his face shining beet red in the warm glow from the nightlights in the plane. Alex blinked a few times, then slowly pulled his feet back down. Slowly, slowly, the man calmed down, from a full rage to a gentle seethe. He then turned back around, taking deep breaths and counting mentally to ten. He gradually returned to normal, his face paling and his breathing returning to normal.

Alex made a mental note to ask his twin and father why, exactly, they chose to voluntarily run these kinds of things. Seriously, shouldn't there be a 'psychic emergency situation' discount? A 'family blood' discount? A 'I can make your head explode with my _mind_' discount? If that didn't get you a first-class seat, Alex didn't know what would.

Alex realized, suddenly, that he must be more tired and crabby than he thought. He normally didn't start threatening Felix and his customers until at least an hour into the flight.

--

Raz stared at his hand, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing (which he couldn't). Steadily, he panned his eyes up his arm and to his shoulder, then as far as he could see down his torso. Even as he looked at himself for the first time since he'd been out, he could hear some part of his mind laughing at him.

_I told you, Raz. I told you that you died. _

_Shut up_! Raz yelled back. _I'm just… not looking right. _

'_Not looking right'? That was bad, even by your standards._

_I said shut _up! Raz forced his way into a sitting-up position, biting his lip as his ribs cried out at this. His mind flared white hot for a few seconds befor ehe collapsed back into a laying-down position, then slowly ebbed awya until he could see again. Slowly, his hand shaking and pale with his effort to keep from screaming, he reached into his pocket. His nerves creaked and groaned, waking up into a world of aching and soreness. However, he ignored them bravely, until his roaming fingers came into contact with something round and papery amidst random, odd-feeling junk.

"A Dream Fluff," Raz whispered through his gritted teeth, twisting the pink-wrapped treat in his outstretched fingers. He held it up to the moonlight, where it glinted a pale rose color. The burgundy smoke inside of the candy exterior twisted around itself in a hypnotic rhythm, the compressed mental energy pushing gracefully against the walls. Raz laughed/sighed slightly at this, his relief evident.

"'Automatic candy', my ass. Could have used you a little while earlier." Of course, he knew why it hadn't opened. Sasha had explained it to him on the plane ride there, along with some other stuff he had been curious about, but wasn't important now.

_(WARNING: Boring scientific explaination ahead! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!)_

There are two types of mental energy in this world: intercognitive (ICE) and outercognitive (OCE). ICE resides in a psychic's mind, and is a type of manipulable force with the ability to disguise itself as any other type of energy (i.e. kinetic) with the right amount of itself. Roughly, it takes 7 units of psychic energy to make one unit of kinetic, but only one to make light, the type of energy closest to itself in value.

An experienced psychic can make an exact measurement of the amount of psychic energy needed, resulting in nothing but the type of energy they want being issued. However, an inexperienced psychic often goes either too little (resulting in no or little energy being dispersed) or too much (resulting in the remaining amount of energy being transferred into light energy—a psychic 'hand' or 'levitation ball'—or too much energy being exerted on the field, if there is still too much to be transferred into less than a brilliant flash). When ICE is out on the field, yet has not become another type of energy, then it is OCE. OCE is created by using up ICE in psychic powers, or by exhaling.

Outercognitive energy wants one thing—to be back in a mind. It manifests itself usually as hate grenades (it's a cool word), confusion grenades, or Dream Fluff energy, depending on how it was used (Psiblast-hate grenade, Confusion grenade-confusion grenade, other-Dream Fluff energy). Psychic arrowheads do not belong here, as they are really just free ranging psitanium. And rock.

Dream Fluff energy shares the same manipulability as ICE, and is naturally dispersed into the air and ready to be absorbed into the mind by being breathed in, where it turns back into ICE. This keeps the ICE balance in check, but affects how long it takes to use a certain, more or less draining power. For example, it takes about five to ten seconds to recharge from invisibility, but only about one for shielding.

When a psychic takes damage, their ICE can be used to help prevent serious damage by energizing the white blood cells in their body. This can help prevent death in certain, normally fatal situations, but if the body becomes hurt enough where the blood cells cannot fix it on their own, excited or no, the ICE system fails, and it will not repair them. In this case, sensing the shut down of the ICE, a Dream Fluff will automatically turn itself into ICE energy and use itself to suture all wounds, restoring the psychic and starting back up the ICE system. However, this will only occur once the ICE system completely shuts down, unless the energy is manually inserted into the psychic by eating, injecting, or smoking (it is rumored that the last one has no hallucinatory effects, though, so _put that bong down_). It then becomes health energy, while the remainder becomes ICE for the mind, or is dispersed back into OCE by exhaling. By keeping this balance of gaining ICE through breathing in and eating Dream Fluffs and absorbing grenades (_a staple part of every psychic's diet_!), then expelling it through breathing out and using psychic powers (less is breathed out the more the psychic uses their powers), a healthy body is maintained.

Raz paused, holding the Dream Fluff, with an odd expression on his face.

"Do I always monologue like that?" he asked himself… then shrugged and popped the Dream Fluff into his mouth. Instantly, he jumped, then breathed a huge sigh of relief as the ICE boost surged through his system, knitting up wounds at hyper-speed. It felt amazing; like an ice pack to a burn, or water after working hard in the summer heat. He smiled sleepily at his broken hand, twitching the fingers up and down to his enjoyment. Sure, he was really far from _completely_ healed, and was going to have some _nasty _bruises, but he was healed enough, and he was happy.

This lasted all of about three seconds.

_Aren't you forgetting something_? Of course.

Raz stumbled out of bed slowly, his feet tingling with newly awakened nerves. Stumbling around as though drunk, he somehow managed to make it over to the wall, before he fell onto his side against it. His shoulder let out a nasty jolt at this, and he squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

"Ow… ow…" he whimpered quietly as he pressed his palms firmly against the dark, slightly bumpy texture. Great. Even with the Dream Fluff, he still felt like he had gotten hit by a truck. His body, surprised that the actual really bad wounds had gone away in an instant, still left odd shadows of pain for him to 'enjoy'. Like when you lose a leg, but you still think it's there.

…Okay, bad analogy. He didn't need to think about losing limbs now.

Over the course of five arduous minutes, Raz managed to stumble over to the door and out into the hallway. Feeling a bit more confident, he slid along the wall of the hall. Gradually as he walked, his nerves woke up fully, and he limped less and less.

He was nearly standing straight when he found what he was looking for: a bathroom. Raz let loose a dizzy grin, eyeing the porcelain appliances like Aladdin gazing upon the Cave of Wonders. They glinted a deep blue in the weak light, their icy white surfaces stupefyingly inviting to the now goggleless (Oh, crap, he forgot his goggles, _stupid, stupid_) boy. He grinned, then forced his way into the room…

…And joyfully dry heaved into the toilet bowl. Once that was done and over with, with his knees shaking and stomach quivering, Raz collapsed against the sink counter beside the bowl, deliriously giggling for absolutely no reason.

"I'm alive…" he whispered to the countertop, his voice dry, but _there_.

_No, you're not, _his mind interjected rudely.

"…I'm alive…" Raz repeated.

_NO, you're not. Look in the mirror_! Raz took a minute longer, giggling maniacally and sniffling, trying his best not to burst out sobbing in sheer relief. That scene in the forest hadn't killed him. His dream hadn't killed him. He was still there; still Razputin Aquato, the Youngest Psychonaut Ever, Whispering Rock camper, professional acrobat… With this in mind, he lifted his tear-streaked, grinning face up to the reflective glass hanging just above the counter, like staring into the face of God…

…Then all of his beliefs came crashing down.

Raz stared at the mirror for about five seconds, not thinking, not breathing, probably. Then, carefully, Raz brought his hand up to press against the glass, his cold fingers leaving a smoky-white tracing around each finger. The other was brought to rest against his cheek, as if checking to make sure it was still there.

Sure, to any normal person, they would have seen the reflection for just what it was: the startled image of an unsettled, disheveled, pale and shaky wreck of a child in desperate need of a hug. However, to Raz, he noticed something few others could. Or rather, a _lack_ of something.

His aura. The familiar light that traced around every psychic like infrared vision, the sign of a fully functional ICE-OCE balance and brainwave pattern… it was just gone. Not even a tiny orange spark poked out from his skin, which remained as cold and blue as the rest of the room.

"No way…" Raz breathed, leaning over the counter to get a better look. The blue, fearful person on the side of the mirror leaned to him, looking eerily like a ghost without the orange. Once again, Raz was reminded of something else Sasha had warned him about.

"Remember what you've been told in school about checking pulses and all that? Forget it all. If a psychic dies, you'll know, because their body will stop producing ICE and OCE. Without it, their aura will vanish. Save the pulse-checking for the non-psychics."

_I told you you were dead. I told you._

"N-no… I'm not dead… Shut _up_! _I'm not dead_!" Raz slammed his fists against the counter, not even noticing the jolts of pain it sent shooting up his arms. He forced his eyes shut, just so he couldn't see his reflection anymore. Then he fell to his knees, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. This brought his forehead level with the top of the counter, and he pressed it against it.

_I told you so, Razputin._

_Shut up. Shut up._

_Afterlife's a bitch, isn't it?_

_Shut up. Just shut up. _

_I was hoping for clouds and cherubs, myself._

_Please, shut up._

_Look on the bright side. You can watch your own funeral, now._

…_I hate you._

_Don't be such a baby._

…Silence.

--

"I see. But how did you prove that the situation was fatal without a body?"

"His aura was entirely nonexistent, except for on the leftover blood. All telepathic communication, even in its most basic form, has been lost. And when Milla used Clairvoyance on the blood, she got memories of the incident."

"Do you know who's responsible?"

"Of course. However, they left the site some time before we arrived. Being non-psychic, we couldn't track them down, especially as the blizzard took away all traces of any sort of footprint."

"Alright. Why would they take the body, though?"

"I have no idea, but it's not worth going after." Agent Derek Westfield made an odd noise in the back of his throat over the telepathic connection, a sign of heavy thinking for him. Sasha, meanwhile, paced back and forth width-wise in the jet, dutifully reporting what he called simply 'the casualty' to the agent in charge of documenting incidents. It was dark inside, but Sasha didn't feel like turning on any lights. Finally, after a few nervous seconds, Westfield spoke again.

"Sasha, are you sure? It's not like you to leave a case while it's still warm. Especially when someone close to you is in danger." Sasha narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"There's no danger, Agent Westfield. Ra… Agent Aquato was eradicated. We'd have a better chance if we could use the information back at HQ to trace the criminals down. Trying to find them now, in blizzard conditions, without even an aura to use, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. It's much easier to use a GPI."

"That's good, Nein, but—"

"Your concern is appreciated, Westfield, but not needed." Sasha was about to disconnect, when Derek broke in.

"Sasha, you don't have to do everything. Let one of the other agents take care of triangulating, someone much better at it. You and Milla should take the day off, seriously. If anyone needs a break right now, it's you two." Sasha paused, his foot mis-stepping slightly as he quit pacing. He was slow in his reply, and when he did answer, his voice was just a little shaky.

"…I can't. We're too close now. We have to find those people, before they try anything like this again."

"You're not the only person in the Agency, you know. And you're not the only one who cares to see these guys 'eradicated'."

"I know that. But I can't very well just sit back and _watch_—"

"Could you do me a favor, Sasha?" Sasha froze, his rising tone cut off mid-rant. Cautiously, he tapered his way back into the connection.

"…What?" On the other end of the line, Derek grew quiet.

"Could you tell me what Milla's doing?" Sasha shook his head to himself, wondering slightly where this was going. Try as he might, his mind was too focused on that scene in the woods to concentrate on the conversation too well. Though, now that Derek mentioned it, he was beginning to wonder that, himself.

"I don't know. Let me go check." He carefully severed the connection, then turned his attention to the pink aura pulsing somewhere near the back of the jet—where the bunks were. He had told her to catch a nap a few minutes before, so this was good. Still, her aura felt nothing like when someone was sleeping, which meant she was still wide-awake. This was bad.

Sasha quickly power-walked down the corridor, his shoes making _klik-klik-klik _noises against the steel flooring. He passed by stacks of papers and furniture that was nailed to the floor without a spare glance, focused entirely on that salmon glow. All too soon, it came up to him, and he found himself face-to-metal with the door to the dormitory.

Someone was crying inside. Soft, tinkling sobs bled out from the heavy steel, laced inside a thick Brazilian accent like a double-stitched sweater. Sasha stood on the other side of the door, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to go in.

Then something inside of him said "screw it", and he opened the door, only to see a despondent Milla crouched on the floor with something in her arms. It was this that she was weeping over, couched over it like that… lizard-guy… in _The Lord of the Rings_ that always said "my precious…" and whatnot.

"Milla…?" Sasha asked, gently tossing her name into the air like a soap bubble to drift around. She took her time in looking up at him, and he could just see something tan and red in her fists. Curious, Sasha took a hesitant step forward.

"He left it here," she responded to a question that hadn't been asked, her voice abnormally blank and toneless, yet at the same time drowning in a slough of misery. She held the item tighter, but by this time, Sasha had already seen what it was.

"Raz's backpack," he noted, wincing only very slightly at the name. Sure enough, the oddly shaped clump of fabric with badges sewn haphazardly on the flap was buried tightly in Milla's arms. The worn stitching seemed submissive and tired, like a very old man.

Gradually, as Sasha looked around, he noticed that the backpack was considerably emptier. Many of the items originally in it were strewn about on the floor, resembling an 'I Spy' book in their random clutter. A dirty fish skeleton was on top of Sasha's old psycho-portal (_he wondered where that had gone_). A green, knit bracelet was wrapped around the claw-like end of a Cobweb Duster. A crow feather, a Mental Magnet, and an Oarsman badge were piled on top of each other. Finally, a small lined notebook with blue pages lay open on Milla's right. It was the last one that drew Sasha's attention the most, for whatever reason. He bent down slightly, grabbed up the book, then stared at the chicken scratch writing on the page.

It was a journal.

* * *

_'Eradicated' is the best word ever... Anyway, WHAT'S GOING ON NOW? Raz is... a ghost? A zombie? Fried chicken? Richard's dead? What's in the journal that shook Milla up like a mint smoothie? Will I ever find out the name of that lizard-guy? STAY TUNED! Oh, and review and stuff, please. That's always EVER SO PLEASANT. 8D_

_-Thinks- ...Review and Socks gets to come back! Review and I'll put in more sadistic stuff! Review and THIS KITTEN -Holds up a kitten- will survive her tragic case of pneumonicancerlaringiaviancolimalaringitis! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO HELP THE KITTEN._


	8. The Silver Lining

**_(FADE IN to the streets of Redcliff County. PSYCHO can be seen, dancing down the street to some fast-paced song. She has an RCA clipped to her pocket and is wearing headphones. As she sings and dances, she makes effort to dramatically point at passsers-by, who just give her weird looks and power-walk away.)_**

**_PSYCHO: (Singing to 'We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful', the one by Reel Big Fish) We hate it when our friends become successful! And if there's no doubt, then that makes it even worse than--Oh, we can destroy them! You bet your life we will destroy them! And if we can hurt them, well, we may as well! It's what I laugh about! Mua ha ha ha-ha ha! Ha ha ha-ha ha! Ha ha ha-ha ha! Oh, oh, oh! _**

**_PASSER-BY: FREAK. D8_**

**_PSYCHO: ..._**

**_(PSYCHO begins slowly pulling out a wooden board with a nail in it from her back pocket, eyeing the laughing, power-walking fellow. Before she kills him/her, however, she turns to YOU. Yes, YOU.)_**

**_PSYCHO: I'm going to be preoccupied for the next few minutes, so for now, why don't you enjoy this latest chapter? Here, there's a song I want you to here. It's called 'Dead', by My Chemical Romance. it's one of my favorites. Why don't you enjoy that, too, while I go take care of some... business. Here._**

**_(PSYCHO puts the headphones over your ears, hands you the RCA, and pushes 'play', then begins power-walking away.)_**

**_PSYCHO: The song should start in two seconds. It goes something like..._**

**_(FADE OUT)_**

* * *

"_Yeaaaaah! Oh, oh, oh, oh! And if your heart stops beating, I'll be here wondering, did you get what you deserve—the ending of your life? And if you get to heaven, I'll be here waiting, babe, did you get what you deserve, the end? And if your life won't wait, then your heart can't take this! _

_Haaave… you heard the news that you're dead? No one ever had much nice to say, I think they never liked you anyway! Oh, taaaake… me from the hospital bed… Wouldn't it be grand—it ain't exactly what you planned—and wouldn't it be great if we… were… dead? All dead._

_Tongue-tied and oh so squeamish, you never fell in love. Did you get what you deserved—the ending of your life? And if you get to heaven, I'll be here waiting, babe, did you get what you deserve, the end? And if your life won't wait, then your heart can't take this!_

_Haaave… you heard the news that you're dead? No one ever had much nice to say, I think they never liked you anyway! And taaaake… me from the hospital bed… wouldn't it be grand to take a pistol by the hand, and wouldn't it be great if we… were… dead?_

_And in my honest observation, during this operation—found a complication in your heart. So long, 'cause now you've got (now you've got), maybe just two weeks to live—IS THAT THE MOST THAT YOU CAN GIVE?_

…_One! Two! One, two, three, four!_

_La la la la-la, la la la la la-la, la la la-la la laaaa laaa! Well come on! La la la la-la, la la la la la-la, la la la-la la laaaa laaa! Mother you-know-what! If life ain't just a joke, then why are we laughing? If life ain't just a joke, then why are we laughing? If life ain't just a joke, then why are we laughing? If life ain't just a joke, then why am I dead? DEAD_!"

"Do you _want_ me to take a rake to your face!?"

"…Fine. Vulgarian philistine."

--

Raz wasn't sure how long he sat there, head in his arms, imagining himself as a ghost. Sasha said he didn't believe in ghosts, once, so Raz hadn't, either. But he wasn't at all sure now.

But, on the other hand, maybe there was a logical explanation…? He struggled to make sense out of this situation, running Agent Nein's words through his mind over and over.

"_If a psychic dies, you'll know, because their body will stop producing ICE and OCE. Without it, their aura will vanish. Save the pulse-checking for the non-psychics."_

"_If a psychic dies… their aura will vanish… Save the pulse-checking for the non-psychics."_

"_Save the pulse-checking for the non-psychics."_

Raz jerked at this, his mind finally hitting something solid. Sasha's words—they were the key all along! What he had just taken for two-cent trivia, waving off with a casual look and a bored nod… He never thought it would help him now. His head shot up, wide green eyes meeting their twin again. Only this time, it wasn't with fear and uncertainty. Rather, it was with shock… and anger.

"They… made me… _non-psychic_!?" he yelped to his reflection, his heart and mind racing. His thoughts were a hyperactive blur—_Is that even possible? I heard you can do that with Psitanium… but that wasn't Psitanium! Oh, God, what if it's PERMANENT? What if I'm stuck like this forever? Whoa—I'd be kicked out of the Psychonauts! Tossed aside like a candy wrapper! I'd never get a chance to work with Sasha and Milla and go on adventures and stuff! I'd be just a normal ten-year old! I'd have to go to SCHOOL and get a job as a FRY-COOK and end up as some sort of ACCOUNTANT—AND I HATE NUMBERS! _

_That's right, Raz._

_AAH! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?__Get out of my head!_

_You're panicking. Calm down. I'm your inner contradictory voice, remember, stupid? _

_Oh, right. That would explain why you sound like Bobby._

_I DO NOT! Anyway, you're missing the most important thing. _

_More important than accounting?_

_Yeah. Think about something else for a change: if those religious extremists find you like this, you're as good as dead. _Raz stared into the mirror, too worried to be concerned about how he had taken up a habit of fighting with himself. Plus, his inner voice was right.

…_But they thought they killed me. And Sasha and Milla would have taken care of them, right?_

_And now you're back. What if they wanted that to happen? And what if they—_

_DON'T SAY IT!_

—_If they killed—_

_**DON'T**__!_

—_Sasha and Milla?_

_**NO**__! THEY WOULDN'T LOSE! They're secret agents!_

_But you lost. Bad. _

_I'm inexperienced! _

_Enough to make the difference between super-victory and crushing, near-fatal defeat?_

…_Y-yeah. I was ambushed, anyway. It was a trap!_

_It was a failure. Mission failed, game over, insert more coins._

_They'll be fine. I KNOW it. And it's not all bad. I'm not dead._

_You're just heavily crippled, emotionally wrecked, and have all of the force of a child acrobat._

…_Sometimes that's all you need. _And with that, Raz left the room.

--

_Dear Journal,_

_HQ is a really, really big place. Seriously, it's probably about an acre and a half total—and thats just the building! The lots are even huger! (is that a word? I'll find out later) It's got all these offices everywhere, like boring cubicals. But I know thats just a fascade, because it's got all these basement levels, and everyone says thats where the action is. I'M SO EXCITED!! I can't WAIT until me and Sasha and Milla get going, but they say they have to do some stuff first, I don't know what? But I'm so excited I can't sit still, but it's soooo boring in here that I'm resorting to writing in this. My hands so shaky with energy, I'm pretty sure I must've made a whole bunch of typoes. BUT I DON'T CARE CAUSE I JUST WANT TO __GET GOING ALREADY__!!_

_Uh, what else… Oh yeah! 3 agents have come in since Sasha and Milla left to go do whatever so far. They were actually kinda annoying. Some lady kept thinking I was lost and tried to 'help me find the exit'. (probably just trying to get rid of me) She also thought I was 'so cute' when I told her I was really an Agent. Luckly, she had to go to some… aquakinetics PTU or something… meeting. The second was some lady in a suit yaking away on a cellphone, and she kicked me on the way passed. SHE KICKED ME! Then she got all pissy, (Lili's word) and started going off on me for not bothering to get out of the way and bow and send her flowers. (okay, not the last two, thats me being sarcastic) Then she had the GUTS to tell me to go 'back to playing hopscotch!' What IS it with people being weird to me because of my age?? I'm almost 11!! Pay me some respect! Oh, and the last guy was some old, busy guy carrying a bunch of papers and jogging along like some sort of real-life White Rabbit. He dropped a few papers, though, so I picked them up telekinetically for him. (oh yes! Raz is a helpful guy!) And he just shot me this weird look and ran off. I hope the other agents are a little nicer._

_Oh, oh! They're coming back—I can hear them thinking about the mission! (also cheesecake??) FINALLY, we can go kick some bad guy butt! Talk later!_

_Raz_

_Dear Journal,_

_It's cold. And quiet. And boooring. And I've got another hour of jetting (jeting? Riding in a jet?) left before we get to Nova Scotia, Canada. Yeah, that's where we're going. Apparrently they were out of volcanos and mountains and underground for evil bases. Or maybe there were a lot of evil budget-cuts. Or maybe Canada's secretly evil. (__I KNEW IT__) In any case, I can only play cards for __so long__. _

_…I miss the internet. _

_We tried to sit together for awhile, like plane passingers. It was OK, but then Milla fell asleep against Sasha, and I fell asleep against Milla. (__I tried not to__) We were all curled up together like some sort of… uh… family? Do many families do that? I think I did with my Mom a few times before she died and Dad got all bitter, but I don't know. I was a little kid then. _

_No, not helping. Still bored, and now I'm a little loanly, too. __I WANT TO BE LANDED NOW, PLZKTHX!!__ …I think I'm gonna go play cards._

_Raz_

The last entry was the worst. It was poorly scribbled and short, but effective.

_Sasha, Milla—it was another ambush. I fell for it, sorry. Everything __hurts__. They wanna kill me, and I'm hurt a __lot__, so I can't stop them. I'm sorry. Please help if you can—__help me please__. NO, get out yourself. I just—God there's blood everywhere. Sorry sorry sorry. Love you 2 __so__ much. Tell Lili I said g_

Then, nothing. Just a lot of blue space and a heavily dug in 'g', so deep that it left a faint imprint on the next page. Sasha stared at the last note for a long time, his eyes wide, before speaking.

"How… could he write this?" he wondered aloud. It was not a question of Raz's apologizing, but rather, how was it possible? How could he write something on a notebook a mile away inside a psitanium-laced jet? Was his telekinesis that powerful? In response, Milla just sniffled.

"He was practically a baby…" she whimpered, ignoring Sasha entirely. "Such a little boy… Why would someone want to hurt him? How could _anyone_ do something like this? Where's the _justice_?" With a wail, she turned and buried her head into Sasha's chest, crying something unidentifiable and staining his good sweater. Sasha blushed, but otherwise made no comment.

In times like this, silence is often the best choice.

--

Raz must have made it about four steps out of the room when he heard the noise—a loud _thu-thump thu-thump_, coupled with… barking? He froze, eyes widening. Shit. They had a dog.

He had no sooner thought this, when he was 'attacked', and by that I mean tackled and thrown to the floor like a wimpy rugby player. He yelped at this, flailing his arms and hitting his back against carpet, hard. However, this wasn't his primary issue, as he also happened to have one hundred plus pounds of canine from his chest to his ankles at that time. He stared up into über-pale blue eyes, breathing in a dusty, wild sort of smell through weighed-down lungs.

"What the—" he began, but cut off when a big, wet, pink tongue slid across his chin and cheek. He twisted his head to the side at this, making a disgusted face. "Ew, gross! Germs!" The dog just panted at this, blissfully oblivious to Raz's discomfort. He, in return, wiped at his slightly damp face with one gloved hand, muttering under his breath and trying to lift himself out from under the heavy, hairy weight. He failed, though, and cursed the orator's name once more for taking away his telekinesis like a jerk.

"Ugh. Go away, you dumb mutt," Raz whispered, trying to be quiet despite his yelling at himself in the bathroom nary a few minutes ago. The dog—a husky, by the looks of it—pressed its black nose against his neck instead, and Raz forced his hands against its muzzle in an attempt to push it away. Fortunately for him, it understood what that meant. With a slightly dejected whine, it pulled its head away, then turned and sat at Raz's side. With the weight off of him, Raz made himself sit up, pressing one hand against the husky's firm hide for balance. This done, then, he scratched the back of its neck absentmindedly.

"…'Man's best friend', eh? I don't know. My friends don't normally try to use me for a couch. Well, not usually, anyway." The husky twisted its head away from Raz at this, exposing more neck to be scratched. The message was obvious: _stop talking and pet me, already, human_! Raz chuckled, wrapping his arms around the husky's neck and burying his nose in the welcome smell of dog. It reminded him of the artistic dogs back at Black Velvetopia, for obvious reasons. It was a welcoming smell—homey.

"I miss Whispering Rock," Raz thought, a sudden case of homesickness kicking in. What were Sasha and Milla doing right now? Were they looking for him—or had they already found him? This place could belong to one of the other agents… But why would they bring him here? Wouldn't a hospital make more sense? He rested his chin on his arm, eyes curious. This case just got weirder and weirder. Maybe it would be best to order what was going on in a list of facts, just to clear things up.

FACT ONE: He, Sasha, and Milla were on a mission to find a group of religious extremists with an ambush fetish.

FACT TWO: After being separated from Sasha and Milla, he was ambushed, mugged, and knocked unconscious.

FACT THREE: He was also force-fed an experimental poison that, for some reason, took away his powers.

FACT FOUR—

Razputin's train of thought careened off the tracks and into a Girl Scout troop as a sudden sound interrupted it. A loud, long creak could be heard from below him, like—_exactly _like—a door being opened. A quiet series of creaks and thunks from downstairs started up shortly after it, growing quickly louder—and closer. Raz snapped up at this with a surprised gasp, his hands tightening on the husky's thick fur.

The husky, though, had another idea. With an excited yip, it tore out of Raz's grasp with its tail sent flying. As it bounded down the hall, Raz was thus left alone, sitting out in the open with a half-curled hand at his mouth and hitched breathing. His eyes darted around like a criminal caught in the act, looking around for a place to hide.

The footsteps got louder… the stairs creaked really badly… a light flashed on in the crack under a door on the far end of the hall, casting Raz into yellowish shadows.

"Alright, alright, Socks, I hear you. Calm down, girl, I'm coming," a male voice spoke up, its tone still heavy with sleep. It was loud—probably only a few feet away form the door. Raz looked around more frantically, considering possible hiding places. Where did that door on the right lead to? Was that smaller door a closet, or a stairway, or just a mistake in size? Could he hide back in the bathroom? Why was he hiding, anyway? Because he was _non-psychic_ and couldn't fight his way out of a plastic bag if he needed to, that was why! That left flight, but flight _where_? Left? Right? Back? …Up?

_Up_. Raz's line of vision turned skywards, and a grin lined his features. The ceiling was spackled over, but had long balsa wood decorative rafters running parallel from one side of the hall to the other. What was better, the rafters were lower than the ceiling, meaning that there was a few inches of space between them and the ceiling—perfect for a pair of hands and feet to slide through. Just one big jump, and Raz was sure he could grab one of them. _And BINGO was his name-o…_

"What's all this ruckus, eh?" the voice demanded only a few seconds later, twisting the knob and pushing the door open in a flood of yellow light. Raz winced at it, throwing one hand over his eyes as a sort of shield. The yellow dyed his form like a spotlight, making him feel nervous and exposed. All that guy had to do was look up…

"Hey!" the guy called out, flicking on another light and casting the entire room into a white glow. Raz drew in a breath as the light came on, convinced that he had been spotted… only to have the man in the room twist one head of black hair side to side, then start stepping forward, still looking around. Silently, Raz breathed a sigh of relief, made further as that guy continued looking in empty rooms and behind random objects. It was a lot like Hide and Seek, only Raz had the best hiding place of all (even if his arms were starting to get tired). He watched with a contented smirk as the black-haired Canadian wound his cautious way down the hall, feeling so much like a spy/assassin/secret agent (HA) that he almost started humming the _Mission: Impossible_ theme song, catching himself just in time.

He wondered to himself what this guy would do once he didn't find anyone. Go back to sleep, hopefully. Then Raz could leave and find Sasha and Milla, and maybe a cure for that pink stuff. They'd just be glad he was okay, right? Hopefully—_hopefully_—enough to excuse his running away (against orders, might he add), leaving them to fight the bad guys, then leaving nothing but probably a lot of leftover blood. Wow, he was getting dizzy just _thinking_ about that. Food would be niiiice…

"Oh, God!" The man cried out suddenly, cutting off Raz's drooling thoughts about turkey legs and pork roast and cheddar and whipped fruit… _gaaahghgihghCHOCOLATE PUDDING WAFFLES PEANUTS SOAP_… With a quick upward turn of the head, Raz looked at the Canadian. He was staring into the room at the end, which Raz recognized as the one he had woken up in. Curiously, Raz turned his head slightly to the side, while the guy jogged into the large area. Was he… worried about him? Quite possibly, but Raz still wasn't sure. Like Agent Ricotoni (one of the people he had been briefly introduced to back at HQ) said, "when in doubt, get the hell out". (This was responded to with, "Goddammit, it's just _Subway_!", but the moral remains.)

The Canadian turned around, but his face was etched with worry. Raz pressed his stomach tighter against the rafter, praying that he wouldn't be spotted. Sure enough, the man just ran right underneath him, his pace quickened from his original run-through. He really was concerned. Huh.

"K-kid!? Where are you? You shouldn't be wandering around when you're hurt! Please, say something!" _Kid_? He was almost eleven already—practically a man! Where did this guy _get off_ with that? Still, judging from his tone of voice, he seemed like a trustable person.

_Crack_. _Crikcrikcrikcrik_.

Raz blinked, looking up at the rafter with a confused expression on his face. To his horror, he saw minute splits in the wood, running their way steadily downwards. After all, it was just cheap balsa.

"Why does this _always_ happen?!" he had just time to yell, before it gave way, and he plummeted to the ground.

* * *

_MUA HA HA! TO BE CONTINUED! 8D_


	9. Peachy Keen So Far

**_PSYCHO: I'm feeling so lazy, I don't wanna' write a screenplay... BUT I MUST; I OWE YOU THAT MUCH. 8D So, anyway. Sorry for the (very brief if I do say so myself) hiatus, but I've been having computer troubles. Yes, AGAIN, _so what if you don't like my lie--_I mean, excuse. Also, I've been having fun with my friends and partaking in frivulous folly during the last fanfare of our school before we are sent to party for months during summer. Totally not sitting in a corner crying over how I don't have any friends and still can't spell 'frivulous'. Okay, maybe it was somewhere in the middle..._**

**_ANYYAY! I do now bring you, as a feeble compensation for your wasted time and effort multiplied over all the evil laughter I've been partaking in because of the latter divided by the lackluster progress of the manga (D8), a new chapter. This chapter also contains 1 percent more explosions than the previous chapter! YAY!_**

**_It's also, for the record, my first chapter written on my NEEEEEW (used) laptop! So let's just see how things turn out, aye? Oh, and I'll get to the messages... someday. Yes._**

**_SOCK PUPPET ONE: OLE! 8D_**

**_PSYCHO: Get out of here, you freak. D8 I really don't like you._**

**_SOCK PUPPET ONE: ...-Sniff-_**

--

_**It was**_ about three hours after the initial take off that the plane arrived at the snowy planes of Nova Scotia, its landing wheels kicking up fog-like clouds of snow as it hit the runway. A few pine trees stirred in its wake, but otherwise the woods just outside of Taylor airport accepted its new visitor without care.

Alex, Cruller, and the short military guy stepped down the stairs (which were on wheels and had been rolled up to the door) amidst flashing lights and a crowd of other passengers. Somehow the trio managed to stay together (to Alex's detest) even as they pushed through ladies holding crying babies and the hands of toddlers, old people commenting on the lovely/horrid/odd weather, people in business suits, and families fumbling with awkward maps and pamphlets. Eventually, the crowd thinned out, as people went their separate ways. The group weaved silently through the clusters of people, each a bit nervous as they entered their destination.

_Agent Nein? Vodello? Aquato? _Alex thought telepathically as he answered questions and passed around luggage. _Are you there? Respond. _It was about three seconds before Alex finally got an answer, just before he was about to try again. It was Agent Nein, his tone not quite as calm and composed as it usually was. That was worrisome.

…_Agent Taylor? What are you doing here? _Alex pulled his only suitcase out of a uniformed woman's hands with a distracted "thank you". She was looking at him funny.

"Is this all you brought, sir?" Alex just nodded, and kept moving on. He had spent so many times living out of one suitcase that it stopped being noticeable to him. A change of clothes, a bit of food, a toothbrush and some money were all he needed half the time. Even more so considering he'd only be here for as short of time as possible.

_I came to give you some advice—and help. I have some information on the case I need to tell you in person. _He tossed his suitcase onto another conveyer belt, close to the exit at last.

_Couldn't have come a little earlier, could you? _Sasha joked dryly. Alex raised an eyebrow, confused.

…_Did I miss something_?

_We already met up with them. They took us by surprise. Agent Vodello and I are okay. They killed Raz, though. _His thoughts were thin and blunt, but sharp as a tack. The suitcase fell to the floor with a muffled, leather thump. Alex didn't notice.

_Oh my God. How long ago?_

…_About an hour. _An hour. If Alex had just gotten there an hour earlier, he might have been able to save another agent's life. Just _one hour_.

"_Shit_!" Alex swore loudly, over what most people would assume was the fallen luggage. With an angry growl, he yanked it off the floor, unbelievably furious at himself.

_One hour one hour one hour_…

_Alex, control yourself_! Sasha demanded sharply.

_How can I? If I had just gotten here one hour earlier—_

_Nothing would have changed! _

_I could have helped!_

_You mustn't blame yourself!_

_How can I not!? It's my fault!_

_No it isn't! Alex, listen to me! You're acting like a child! _

_You know I could have! You know it's my fault he's dead! I can tell you want to blame me, so why don't you? Why don't you hate me? I killed someone close to you, alright? What else do I have to do?_

_Of course I hate you! But, Alex, I don't hate you for killing Razputin. I hate you for thinking you did, and just standing there in a pool of your own guilt. Do you think anything would be different if I blamed you or not? Do you think a 'confession' will bring him back to life? It won't. Blaming yourself will not solve anything, so get off your ass and _help_, if that's what you really came to do._

_...Sasha…_

_We're waiting._ Alex swallowed heavily, his knuckles white against the luggage handle.

…_Alright. I'm coming. Wait for me, okay?_

_That's the spirit._

_--_

_Le splinter. _

Raz cried out when the wood broke under his weight (_damn_ _you_, balsa!), his arms flailing around for something to hold onto. He thought he heard loud barking and the word "Huh?" (also "David", but he was pretty sure that was his imagination), then he was on top of the guy, all wood splinters and waving limbs.

"Ow! _Ow_! The _paaaaaaain_!" Raz yelped before he could stop himself, eyeing splinter-coated hands while tumbling off of the guy's head. He waved them around, scattering a few balsa bits on the carpet. Fortunately, his gloves were thick, and only a few splinters actually hit skin—just enough to hurt like hell.

"_Don't move_!" The yell was so sudden and startling, Raz listened. He froze in place, muted, with his hands held out in front of him like he was saying "got change, mishta'?" The 'mishta'', at this, ran up to him, an angry/concerned look on his face.

"Uh… It's not serious…" Raz began awkwardly, but he took no notice.

"What are you doing? You could have been seriously hurt! My God, how could you even do that? The last time I checked, you were half… out like a light!" He didn't need to correct himself, though, as Raz knew what he meant: just a few minutes ago, he had been half-dead. Now the worst he had were some bad cuts, bruises, and besplintered hands. Still, rather than explain the complicate mechanics of a Dream Fluff, he abruptly changed the subject.

"My name's Raz. Who're you?" He had to work hard to keep a sarcastic drawl out of his voice. The Canadian blinked, confused, and then realized he hadn't introduced himself yet. He let out a long sigh, turning his head to one side.

"…You can call me Mr. Erikson. Now, Raz, can you tell me what on Earth provoked you to try and climb a balsa wood decorative support beam, even with a broken leg and two broken fingers?" His eyes widen a millimeter at Raz's normal, non-broken leg stance, but otherwise made no comment on it. In response, Raz shrugged.

"I just wanted to find out where I was."

"Couldn't you have just… asked someone?"

"Well, think. If you woke up in some place you didn't recognize after getting the stuffing beaten out of you, wouldn't you be suspicious?" Mr. Erikson bit his lip, knowing that Raz was right.

"…Right, right. I'm sorry. I should have thought about that. But you don't need to worry, Raz. We're not here to hurt you. My wife and I found you, and thought you needed some help. There's nothing to be afraid of, you'll see." Raz, however, was still skeptical.

"…Why didn't you just call an ambulance?"

"We tried. They can't make it through this blizzard." Raz's eyes widened at this, as a new thought suddenly struck him. He gasped, his mind rewinding back to that time just before he was knocked out.

"_Blizzard_? Oh, man… Sasha and Milla are still out there, probably looking for me! They gotta' get out of there! I gotta' let them know I'm okay! What if they get lost or hurt or something? Man, this is all my fault!"

("See?" Alex would proclaim triumphantly, years later. "I'm not the only one who does that!")

"Raz, calm down!" Mr. Erikson ordered. Raz obediently stopped speaking, but he continued looking around and breathing heavily. Satisfied, Mr. Erikson began again. "Now, who are Sasha and Milla?"

"…You don't know?" he asked, dumbfounded. Mr. Erikson shook his head, and that was all the cue Raz needed.

"Why, there's only the two greatest, super crime fighting secret agent psychic superheroes, ever! They go all over the world—China, India, Peru—and beat the stuffing out of supervillians and bank robbers using their awesome powers! They've appeared in four-hundred-twenty-seven issues of _True Psychic Tales_ so far, and have traveled to every single country in the world—except Korea. Together, they're an unstoppable mental _army_, which the world has yet to see before! For years, they've been idolized by every kid on the earth, even non-psychics! They're the Justice League of this modern _world_!" He ended his tangent there, gasping for air with an excited red face. There was a long pause.

"…I see," Mr. Erikson finally said, nodding his head in a way that Raz _knew_ meant that he didn't believe him. "Well, they sound fascinating. But if they're the kind of… superheroes you say they are, then I don't think they need your or my help. I think they'll be fine on their own."

"…I guess so… But I still wanna' let them know I'm okay. Just in case they're still looking." Mr. Erikson looked at him, then, his expression concerned. He remembered quickly the first time he had seen Raz—broken, bleeding, near death, and in the middle of that same storm. Did he really want to risk repeating that, just to make him happy? The answer was no, he didn't.

"I'll tell you what," he began carefully, already heading to the door at the end of the hall, leading Raz along with a gentle but firm hand pushing on his shoulder blades. "You're in no way ready to head back out into that storm. Why don't you rest up a little longer? I can keep an eye out for those women, alright? I'll tell them where you are, promise." Raz opened his mouth, thought for a second, closed it, and then opened it again.

"Women? What women?" However, Mr. Erikson didn't answer. Instead, he turned to look at something down at the far end of the hall. Raz tried to catch his eye, but he was focused on something entirely different—something concerning. For not the first time since he had lost his powers, he wished he could read minds.

"What's up?" he finally asked, about to crack with anticipation. In response, Mr. Erikson turned to look at him. His face had lost all traces of its original warmth, becoming dead serious… and afraid.

"Raz," he stated, his voice icy calm. "I want you to take that door on your right, head down the stairs, and into the basement. Lock both doors behind you. Katherine should follow shortly. If you can't walk, wait for her help." Raz looked to his right, spotting the skinny door he had wondered about being a closet, staircase, or mistake in size. Looks like 'staircase' won.

"…Why? What's going on?" He carefully slid into a defensive position. "I-I warn you, I'm a Psychonaut. I'll kick your ass if you try anything funny."

"Raz, _go_," he replied, more urgently.

"What's—" He had no time to finish his question, though, as just then, a huge explosion shook the house.

_--_

_Ha. Evil cliffhanger is EVIIIL. So I guess all I have to say is, tune in for the epic conclusion to the Exploding Cabin Mystery! NEXT TIME._


	10. Golden Moment

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_COLORO PLUVIA: THE MUSICAL!_**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_(It is a bright and sunny day in Redcliff County, Wisconsin. The CAMERA pans in slowly, across a field of fresh glass with mower lines running a good distance around it. Finally, the CAMERA crests a hill, showing that PSYCHO is riding a large, loud, gray mower along the field, listening to music via headphones, as per usual.)_**

**_PSYCHO: Oh, hello there. You know, for as long as I can remember, there's been heat. Granted--wait, what? Wrong speech? Oh, okay. (Pulls out a note card) Oh, yeah. This is Coloro Pluvia, chapter... something. Ten, yeah. It's an emotional chapter with a random scene near the end that, surprisingly, corresponds with the future of the fic. Enjoy, all, and don't forget to REVIEW! _**

**_(Quick pan to close-up of Psycho's face, with a forebordin gblack background and shadows and what-have-you.)_**

**_PSYCHO: THAT MEANS YOU. _**

**_(Pan away!)_**

**_PSYCHO: And for those who have reviewed thus far, thank you. You're all awesome, eight-capital-d. May you all have love, happiness, and general good stuff in your life. Like this story!_**

**_(FADE OUT)_**

* * *

Ford didn't know what to do at first. All at once, the angry white veil that had sunken over his vision broke away, leaving him with clear sight of all that had happened. Still, he ignored the debris, or the other two agents, or Daniel. Instead, his sight, like that of the others, was locked on the helmeted boy standing awkwardly in the doorway. Raz's vision traveled across the room, taking in the snow-coated wreckage and stilled fighters with raised eyebrows. Ford attempted to say something to him, to clarify that he was really _there _and _alive_, but all he could manage was a hoarse rattle. Determined, he swallowed and tried again.

"…Razputin?" Ford asked at last, his voice incredulous. Raz's numbly surprised gaze met his for a second or two, then he nodded. No one made a sound; the only noises were heavy breathing and the distant sound of a clock ticking. Ford could hear Morry's, Alex's, and Daniel's minds racing, their unique thoughts matching each others' rapid pace.

_What the—Man, I don't believe it. He's alive! But, how? Sasha and Milla wouldn't lie about something like that. And his aura's completely missing. This is something, for sure._

That's_ Razputin!? As in, Agent Razputin Aquato? Whoa, he's tiny! What is he, nine? What kind of agency hires nine-year-olds to do work like this? I barely got into this myself!_

_Oh, God. I told him to stay hidden! Raz, why can't you just _listen_? Oh, God, let them leave him alone, please! He didn't do anything!_

But he couldn't hear his own. For once, that great expanse of complex neural matter was silent. Oleander was saying something, and Raz was saying something back, but he couldn't hear a word of it. He could see mouths moving, flapping up and down like mindless fish, confused eyes meeting shocked eyes meeting horror-struck eyes. Daniel yells something to Raz, his silent fish-mouth cracking open like he's about to swallow a guppy. Oleander yells something back, something simple and quick, turning to face him with his tanned hands tightened into fists that were just now getting into the urge to punch something. (Ford knew this was just his way of dealing with a confusing situation.) Raz turned to Oleander, holding out his hands in a surrender sign and pushing them forward and back (_easy, easy_), while saying something. Daniel gets up; he gestures wildly to Raz, waving one arm towards the doorway and probably yelling. Raz, in turn, shakes his head, and Oleander nods at this. Daniel shakes his head right back, more furiously, and gestures back towards the hallway. At this, Raz crossed his arms in childish rebuttal, giving Ford a look that clearly states "_He_ will agree with me." The simple move was so fitting, so unbelievably _Raz_, that suddenly Ford realized: this was _real_. And he could hear again.

"Razputin!" Ford repeated, his tone thick with relief. In no time at all, he sprinted across the room, leaping over the debris with the kind of agility he hadn't had since he was half his age. Raz looked up at him, his green eyes widened with surprise at the reaction even as Ford rapidly came within arm's reach.

Then he was there, and suddenly he had that boy in his arms, his near-hundred pounds not even registering with Ford's normally fragile spine and weathered arms. Suddenly he was laughing and sniffling at the same time, not even caring who was watching as he held a squirming, whining, bruised but still very _alive_ kid three feet off the ground, while chuckling as if hearing a creative witticism.

"It's nice—to see—you too, Agent—Cruller!" Raz stuttered, his voice hitting just an edge of hysteria. "Can't—breathe—!" Ford just shook his head, grinning, loosening his arms a millimeter and allowing Raz to gasp for air.

"Stupid kid… Yer blowin' my cover…"

"Oh, uh, sorry! I didn't mean to!" Ford just laughed.

"Just foolin'. Jeez, yer wound up tight. Relax; no one's gonna' re-kill you for the small things." There was a silence. Raz looked up at his mentor, his green eyes staring in surprise. Something in Ford's words clicked in his mind, and it didn't take him long to pounce on it.

"Wait, what do you mean, '_re_-kill'?" He gasped lightly after saying this, as a thought suddenly struck him. "Where are Sasha and Milla? Are they okay? Are they still out there looking for me?" Ford took a moment after this to instead set Raz down, his elderly fatigue (much as he loathed to admit it existed) catching up to his relief. It seemed he wasn't as strong as he used to be, as even a lightweight like Raz put new aches in his limbs. Besides, Raz would probably want to be standing for this one.

"They're not looking for you, son. Right now they're on their way to HQ, continuing the mission as best they can with GPI. You see, Razputin…

"They think you're dead."

…There was, yet again, another long silence in the mutilated Erikson family kitchen. It was hard _not _to have long silences in most cases, considering the vast majority of the attendees were mind-readers, but this was fringing on abnormal. Finally, with a voice as dusty as an uncleaned chalkboard eraser and twice as dry, Raz attempted to break it.

"D-dead?" he choked out, his normally confident tone dropped nearly into the empty red abyss of panic and hanging somewhere in the blue haze of shock for not the first time since this mission. "They really think… Even after… Really? But Sasha's so… and Milla's just… How?" His eyes glazed over, though, as he hit a point of sudden understanding.

"You thought so, too, didn't you? You guys also thought I was a goner. That's why you wrecked this place and attacked Mr. Erikson like that! You thought he was the murderer all along!"

"Stand down, kid! We didn't know what Daniel was up to, innocent or otherwise, but we figured he was an accomplice or something—must have been, with you hanging around," Oleander pointed out. "But seeing as you're still kicking—crazy as it sounds—I guess his story checks out."

"Good. Do you think you can start making up for destroying part of my cabin, now?" Daniel pointed out irritably. Alex was oddly silent.

There was no stopping Razputin now, though. He was on a roll, and started pacing about the large space. If he had a moustache, he would have been twirling it around his finger. As it was, he had to settle for rubbing a hand against his goggles. (_In a way that makes them uncomfortable!_) While doing this, he continued talking, in a winding monologue.

"I see. So, shortly after I was ambushed and beat up, that must have been when the rumors started going out about my death. Mr. Erikson probably got me before Sasha and Milla could—probably distracted with the ninjas—"

"They're not ninjas," Ford pointed out lightly, but he went ignored, too.

"…Which would give Mr. Erikson plenty of time to get to the woods and get out, depending on how close this cabin is to there."

"Close enough to hear the screams," Daniel added in with a shiver. "It was nightmarish. I'd say we're about forty yards away from that site."

"However, before he could come, that stupid orator guy did _try _to kill me. I remember he made me drink some pink stuff—he said it was poison."

"He _poisoned_ you?" Ford and Daniel chimed; the latter because of concern for Raz and detest over the orator's cruelty, and the former due to both that, and the sudden realization of how close Raz really had come to death—and also how he didn't seem to be showing any aftereffects of being poisoned by any normal kind at all. Also, no poison he knew of was pink, unless you counted things like drain and window cleaner; either way, that wasn't arsenic. But why would someone use something so inaccurate as a household cleaner for a planned murder case?

Meanwhile, Raz was looking at his 'saviors' as if they were the slowest people on Earth. However, everyone in the room could see the pain hidden behind his eyes at the memory. He was sad.

"Yeah. It was… pretty awful. It felt kind of like when you stick your hand on a hot burner, only all over, and about a hundred times worse. And they broke a whole bunch of bones, I think, and I think there was a knife or something and I got a ton of bruises, so that hurt a lot, too." He paused, deep in thought, while everyone absorbed the news.

"Where is he?" Oleander finally interjected in his own, usual way. "Where is that sorry, sadistic little excuse for a sonuvabitch? I'll crack him open like a toasted _walnut_, don't you worry about that, Razputin. No one touches any of _my_ troop members unless I say so!"

"_No_!" Raz interrupted, so suddenly that everyone turned to stare at him. With all those eyes upon him, Raz responded by casting his own pair towards the ground, then drawing up his gloved hands into tight fists. Even through the thick leather, the nails on his fingers bit into his palms, even as he grit his teeth and forced himself together.

"I want to…" he finally spoke, his little fists shaking against his sides as he growled out the words with previously-unknown venom. "I want to do it. I want to be the one to kill him. I want to make him _suffer_ for what he did to me_._

"_And no one is gonna' stop me_."

* * *

_There is a house. CORRECTION: there is a near-mansion, its dark and rotted walls planted against a weedy lawn like an unpleasant, Victorian growth. Vines creep up along the chipped, once-was-white-but-now-is-only-grey paint, their leaves serrated at the ends like the broken glass that sometimes lines the windowpanes. To an outsider, the structure hidden in the forest looks abandoned, but there are some that know better. Some that make flickering candlelight at dusk, some that make the overgrown fields their play place._

_Between the dying weeds and empty twilight, laughter abounds._

_Darting in the miniature forest with limitless energy, two young boys chase each other around. Both are small and skinny for their respective ages (a rough estimate would be eight and twelve, the former chasing the latter), and both share the same umber black untidy hair and dark skin. They also both have the same expression of childish joy._

"_Not gonna' get me!" the older boy teases, his voice coming off as oddly distant and echoing as he sprints through the grass with a _krissh_ing noise. From behind him, his brother doesn't even give an answer, using his energy solely to run. The two cross around the house to the back, where the light is dim and the ever bare trees extend branches like claws at the sky. It is there that, with a triumphant cry and a sudden burst of energy, the younger boy finally tackles his brother. With surprised cries, the two go tumbling into the undergrowth. They somersault awkwardly for an extra foot or so before finally collapsing, the younger boy on top of the other, pinning his brother's arms to his back in an expression of victory. _

"_Ha! I win, Ed! I beat cha'!" the younger brother cried, happily bouncing up and down on his brother, Edmond. Ed doesn't consider the activity a strain on his back, though, as his brother is almost dangerously underweight. Instead, he grins, twisting over onto his side and sending his brother tumbling to the ground._

"_You've gotten faster, Johnny-Jo, but not enough. I was jus' unprepared an' all. Next time, I'm gonna' keep you runnin' til' the vamps come out!" He laughs, then presses one hand to the ground in an attempt to push himself to his feet again. However, it seems he's misjudged his brother's position, as Johnny catches sight of something on his brother's arm. He blinks, certain it's his imagination, but the marks do not disappear. Finally, he can hold it in no longer._

"_Did the vamps give you those?" he blurts, eyeing the red lines that crisscross Ed's lower arm. Some are browned or blackened with age, yet others are a fresh scarlet. One, perilously close to his wrist, is even still bleeding slightly, doubtlessly jarred by the fall. Ed casts Johnny a confused look, then stares at the wounded appendage as if just noticing it was there. After a few impatient seconds, Ed answers, but his voice isn't like it was before. It's much clearer, like comparing a voice over a bad phone connection to someone standing a few feet away, just is at the same time quiet and mumbling. Also, his cheerful slurring of his words is gone. He just looks solemnly at the blood and cuts that race up his arm, each one parallel to the ones above and below it, and about half an inch apart. _

"_No. The vamps didn't give me any cuts." He turns to his brother, the latter of which is shocked to see his face has twisted into a slight grin. It's not the happy grin he had just moments ago, though; this one is grim, with just a hint of sadness under it. "I did. To get all the icky things out."_

_

* * *

To be continued. 8D YAY!_


	11. Red Alert

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_COLORO PLUVIA: THE MUSICAL!_**

**_BLUE BASE_**

**_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_**

**_(The CAMERA fades in, showing a massive field of broken buildings and blocks of debris. Two teams, Red and Blue, are fighting against each other, and shots and explosions are heard on all sides. Every second, buildings fall, and soilders explode. The CAMERA glides over to one tall, thin chunk of cement, which three people in light blue, navy, and greenish-blue Spartan 2 armor quickly run up to and duck behind. Their names are PSYCHO, ERIC, and EMERALD.)_**

**_PSYCHO: We can't hold them off much longer, EMERALD! Red forces are advancing in huge numbers, and I still suck at this game! If we don't come up with a plan soon, they'll CAPTURE OUR FLAG! _**

**_EMERALD: ...I have an idea. Here. (Passes PSYCHO a laptop) Use this to signal for help. We're going to have to go... ONLINE._**

**_PSYCHO: (Gasps) You mean X-Box Live?! We've never done that before. What about the n000000bs?_**

**_ERIC: That's a chance we have to take. Just hold on to your controllers, and, for the love of God, do NOT plug in my headphones._**

**_PSYCHO: ...Okay. But what will you do?_**

**_ERIC and EMERALD: We're going in. (Both run off into the fray)_**

**_PSYCHO: Well, looks like it's up to me. Our only hope is to log onto X-Box Live and switch to online play. Though how I'm supposed to do that with a laptop, I have no idea. I'll just have to try--Hey! My Psychonauts fanfic, cool! Well, posting one chapter couldn't hurt..._**

**_(FADE OUT)_**

* * *

"Not a chance!" Morry yelled to Razputin, crossing his stubby arms in fierce rebuttal. "I hate to say this—and I mean I _really_ hate to say this—but what you need is some time to cool down in the infirmary, by the looks of it." In response, Raz turned his fiery gaze to the coach.

"No way! You weren't there, Coach; you don't know how it felt! I _can't_ let that thug get away with this! He didn't just hurt me—he hurt Sasha and Milla, too. Like, emotionally. He's gotta' go down." He attempted to turn around and stomp angrily out the giant, gaping hole in the wall, but Ford was already there, putting one weathered hand on his shoulder.

"Easy now, son. You had one hell of an ass-kicking out there, and it ain't going to go any differently if you run back out there again, even if you were fully patched up. Let us take care of this guy—there'll be plenty of fighting once you get better." Raz squirmed away from the physical contact, then whipped around to face Mr. Cruller, still upset.

"I _am_ better! I mean, I got a few bruises left, sure, but that's nothing! And I only lost because I was tricked—which _won't_ happen again. Just gimme a chance, Agent Cruller, and I can do this. It won't be the same unless I get back at him myself."

"Razputin, as your mentor, I order you to come with us to the _hospital_, not the battlefield, and get some R&R."

"I don't _need_ R&R! I'll just take a Dream Fluff or two, alright? Sasha said the OCE has healing powers."

"It doesn't heal you, son. It speeds up your body's cells. What if you get an infection from the open sores? It'd spread into gangrene before you could say 'what's that weird stuff on my arm?'!"

"They're already bandaged!" With that, Raz decided that the argument was over. With an angry glare, he turned away from the room, then began stomping his way out, shoving his feet against the ground hard enough to send slight tremors throughout the room. He was almost out into the snow when Alex spoke up, his voice oddly light and quiet.

"How do you expect to beat them without any psychic powers?" he asked, his tone dry and hinting just a little at snobbish. The room froze. Ford, Morry, and Daniel shot him stunned looks. Raz, however, stood stock-still for a moment, then slowly turned back around, his face a little ashen.

"…How did you know… about that?" he croaked. From in front of him, Alex didn't answer, but instead reached over to one side and yanked his clunky brown suitcase up into his arms. That done, he heaved a small sigh, then crouched down and cracked open the latches. Curious, Daniel, Oleander, Ford, and Raz all gathered around behind him.

"Was this what you were drugged with, Aquato?" Raz winced slightly, not liking the way his last name slipped out—too formal and dressy; almost, but not quite, like he was being made fun of. Still, he peered down into the case like the rest of them, and gasped with the rest of them, his being by far the loudest.

Inside the case, resting placidly on top of messily folded socks and jeans like some sort of hibernating, feral beasts, were three hypodermic needles. Cloudy pink.

"That's it!" Raz exclaimed, his mind recoiling at the sight even as his eyes raped the mysterious vision before him. What was that saying again? 'Love and lust don't always keep the same company'? Raz _wanted_ to know about this; he didn't _like_ it at all.

"I'll be…" Ford breathed, his voice barely penetrating the air. "It's a Dream Fluff. All this fuss over an over-dressed piece of candy in a needle." Raz shot him a surprised look, eyebrows arched.

"Wait, you're telling me _candy_ took away my powers?!" He began to have second thoughts about eating that one Fluff after waking up. For all he knew, that could be furthering the issue. In response, though, Alex shook his head slowly, stepping back from the suitcase to allow the others more room.

"Well, 'candy' is a misconception, really. I've never seen anything like this before. It's like a Dream Fluff, but the OCE in it is compressed—hugely. As far as I can tell, each one of these vials contains more than three times the amount of OCE available in even the most talented psychic." he explained.

"And a regular Dream Fluff contains…?" Raz asked, waving his hand in a 'go on' gesture.

"About one-fourth." Oleander whistled.

"That's one pimped-out candy." There was a temporary silence. Raz cast his eyes around, fixating on each and every numbly stunned face with his own. Finally, he could take no more.

"So, what?" he blurted, his eyes drawing rather unwillingly to the OCE again. "How does that connect with the rest of my ICE going poof?" He noticed, then, out of the corner of his eye, that there were no magenta swirls in the hypodermics, but just straight pink. The OCE was crammed in so tight that it couldn't move. Any more and you'd have a solid OCE block. While he was observing this, though, Alex was thinking. After a tense moment, he added in to the knowledge pool.

"Well, I'm just guessing, but I believe the whole point behind this is a system overload." He turned his head slowly to face each member of the group, eyes wide and hands partially up as he explained. "I mean, what happens when a circuit gets too much electricity? It short-circuits. Now, with a circuit, you have a circuit-breaker to prevent the results from harming the equipment—but a mind doesn't have that, I think. If you get too much OCE coming in, the whole system could fry."

"You mean physical brain damage?" Daniel at last cut in. "Mental retardation? A vegetative state?" Alex just shook his head.

"No. Just the psychic part of the brain—the _Insolitus Animus _would be at risk, as it's completely isolated from the rest of the brain. That isolation probably saved Razputin's life back there." Though Raz winced again at the memory, Ford interrupted, unperturbed.

"Wait, wait. If it only affects that one part of the mind, why would… they… believe it's poison?"

"I guess because they're grasping at straws as much as I am. They probably thought that the ICE would force enough pressure onto the _Insolitus Animus_ that it would burst—which it did—and the shrapnel would, in turn, wreak the brain, causing fatal wounds, aneurisms, and, I'd imagine, incredible agony for the victim. As it was, the shrapnel probably—and I really hate to say this—destroyed the IA." Raz made a tiny noise from somewhere in the back of his throat at this; a kind of squeaky _eigheh_ that no one else could hear, fortunately. While the others eyed the shots and thought scientifically, Raz's mind was reeling.

He remembered once, way back when he was seven, when his uncle fell off a tightrope during practice. On the way down, his leg had smashed through a prop mirror, and the glass had turned it into something you might see come out of the wrong end of a sausage maker before he tumbled free. Raz also remembered how, two days later, his uncle had amputated that leg at the kneecap and gotten a prosthetic, as it was too damaged to work anymore, and just hung off the end of his wheelchair like a giant chipotle burrito in all its gauze.

Now his ICE/OCE storage had shattered, like a prop mirror with a leg jammed through it. And the damage was too bad to repair.

"Oh, isn't this just the saddest thing you ever saw?" A voice drawled out suddenly, like a sarcastic response to Raz's own thoughts. The words needled at Raz's perked-up ears, poking out like spikes in a field of crunching footsteps and snapping debris. With a barely-concealed gasp, Raz spun around, teetering slightly on the snowy, icy ground. What he saw behind him did nothing to slow his racing heart.

"Hello, everyone," the teen behind the group spoke, his shiny green eyes locked onto Raz's similar pair even as he addressed the whole team. However, as soon as Raz caught a glimpse of him, his brown haired-head twisted, so that he came into eye contact with each member. "My name is Nathan Phage. It's a pleasure to meet you all—Agent Oleander, Agent Taylor, Agent Erikson, Agent Cruller—my, I thought you were a myth. What a crazy world."

"What do you want?" Ford barked sharply, sliding over half an inch to his left. Raz didn't miss the fact that this brought him a little closer to himself. He also didn't miss the fact that everyone else had gotten up before him. He must have been more spaced than he thought. In response to Ford's question, though, Nathan just grinned a bit wider, then turned to Raz again.

"And you must be Agent Aquato, unless I'm very mistaken. Well, this _is_ something. Either John lied to us, or there's been some sort of real miscommunication. Good thing we were following the auras of the others, or we would have never known you were here."

"He was half-right," Raz spat, sliding into an attack position with the others. "But I don't need to be at one-hundred percent to kick your ass." Nathan held up two hands in a mock-surrender sign.

"Man, you're a mean little brat, aren't you? You kiss your mommy and daddy with that mouth?" He turned behind him, where Raz could clearly see nine more of the infamous ninjas-not-ninjas standing at attention. With a grin by far more sadistic and somehow more professional than the one he had showed them, he gave them their orders. The navy trench coat (with the Hot Topic tag just peeping through the collar) he was wearing fluttered appropriately dramatically as he turned to them.

"Alright. Manny, you take the non-psychic brat. Remember, John probably wants him _alive_, or his won't be the only death in this hellhole, _capuche_? The rest of you, you get the agents. Remember to share. We've got a two-to-one ratio here, in case you didn't pass Math."

"Aw, I only get one guy?" Raz whined sarcastically.

"Well," Alex mused, powering up some deep purple OCE in his hands with a sharky grin, "I have to give you points for dramatic entrance, but you lost what you had for poor planning. There's no _way_ we're going down with just this." Ford turned to Daniel at this, the latter of which who was already pressing a glowing yellow hand to his forehead. They made grim eye contact, then Ford spoke.

"Look, I'm sorry about what we did to your house. I can't promise you we'll get to fixing it right away—in fact, it's about to get a lot messier. But what do you say we let live for now, until we put these religious twats into their place?"

"I say we quit talking and start kicking ass." Daniel said, in a way that was extremely out of character for him.

"Spoken like a true soldier, Erikson," Oleander confided. "You would have made a damn good agent."

"Well if we make it out of this alive, I might just humor that offer." It was then that Raz stepped forward, providing the final note of the pre-battle commentary.

"Listen up, you after-lifeless freaks. Your head _honcho_ decided to try and take me out a little bit ago, as I'm sure you're all per-fect-ly aware. And thanks to him, two of my closest friends—practically my _heroes_—think I kicked the bucket. And by now, all of Whispering Rock probably thinks the same. Add that up with the fact that I wake up after going through _Hell_—just because of a stupid prejudice—in some place I don't even know… let's just say, you're not going to like me very much after this." And with that, they charged into battle.

* * *

_To be continued, EPICLY! Stay tuned, and be sure to review! 8D_


	12. Someone So Jaded

**_Psycho Director: Oh, hello. It is good to see you again. For those of you non-CD101-readers (SHAME) who didn't hear the news, I was grounded for a while, so that's why I haven't been updating much. However, now that I am happily back at Internet Land, we can now joyously return to whatever it was we were doing and put this whole, messy hiatus behind us. And hug._**

**_...Or start the fic. Whichever works._**

--

From in front of him, Manny cracked a pair of slightly-burly knuckles. Raz narrowed his eyes, thrusting one foot back and one hand forward in a karate pose he had seen on TV once.

"Look, kid, why don't you just surrender peacefully? I could cause you some real harm, and I really would prefer not to. You look bad enough as it is." Raz raised an eyebrow at this, shifting ever-so-slightly out of his battle position.

"Do you really think I'd fall for that? You tried to _kill_ me before. I'll take my chances." Manny shrugged.

"Your loss. Hate to do this, but you took my Option B. Take _this_!" With a growl, he swung his fist, the slightly-tanned block of flesh powering towards Razputin. With a practiced air, however, the latter quickly back-flipped out of the way, continuing so as Manny launched one-two punches at where he had just been.

"You'll have to do better than that," Raz taunted cockily, putting a particularly powerful shove into his next flip and reversing direction; from back-flips to one big front-flip. He flew over Manny's head, gave one quick, midair somersault, then drove both boots into the top of his head. Like a springboard, Raz bounced off Manny's head, landed, slid, and whipped around, half-crouched.

Manny wasn't done yet. With another angry growl, this time cradling a bruised skull with one hand, he lunged forward, one fist held upside-down in an attempted uppercut. Raz just smirked, leaping up and onto the remains of the stove to his left. As Manny stumbled past, Raz bunny-hopped the short distance to him, latching onto his back like a human backpack.

"What the—" Manny began, saying a few more words that shouldn't be said here for they are naughty.

"Language!" Raz hissed, jokingly shocked, then thrust a pair of gloved hands over a pair of shocked blue eyes. "Now, let's go… thissaway." Manny flailed about, but unfortunately for him, Raz had weaved his arms under the other male's armpits, so his arms were currently locked under slightly under one-hundred pounds of ten-year-old arm pressure.

Stumbling around blindly, with a Raz-pack laughing on his back and ice beneath his feet, was it any wonder what happened next? Manny slipped, thanks to Raz's 'directions', smacking his already bruised forehead into one of the three of four walls remaining. Raz offered one more sadistic "ha-ha!", then jumped back down onto the floor.

"What the NAUGHTY WORD! :D?!" Manny swore, pressing both hands to a now profusely-bleeding scalp. "This kid's not NAUGHTY WORD! :Ding _human_! Phage, what the NAUGHTY WORD! :D?!" Raz paused at this, pressing a finger to his mouth in thought.

"Nathan Phage… Why does that sound familiar?" he mused, before having to leap out of the way as Manny tried another assault. The dance continued; a kind of rhapsody of deft leaps and thrown punches on both sides. Eventually debris wound its way into the fight, becoming a violent free-for-all with injuries on both sides. Manny was starting to look like the late uncle Aquato, while Raz was grudgingly forced to admit a few more cuts into his repitua.

Somewhere along the line, Raz passed by each of the other agents. Ford was kicking ass without gum, as usual, and had both of his baddies down for the count. He was helping Alex with his two, but took the time out to toss Raz a Dream Fluff, which he ate after a moment of consideration.

Agent Taylor did little more than flash Raz a quick grin and mouth something that looked suspiciously like "Lucky NAUGHTY WORD! :D" before darting back into battle. Raz watched him fire less-than-precise psiblasts with just a hint of envy.

Oleander didn't even make eye contact. Well, to be fair, he did seem to be having trouble taking down the last guy, who was pretty athletic.

Raz noticed, though, with surprise, that he couldn't see Erikson anywhere. Despite his promise to Oleander just a few minutes ago, the caring Canadian seemed to have gone AWOL. He hoped he wasn't hurt or anything.

"Da—" Raz began, his eyes scanning the room, but that was as far as he got. In the few seconds he had been looking for Daniel, Manny had managed to recover from his head injuries… and he was _pissed_.

"You… little… _bastard_," he growled, far too close. Raz could, just barely, feel his breath against the back of his head. With a jerk, Raz spun around, only to feel a pair of familiar hands close in… around his neck.

Odd noises worked their way out of Raz's vocal cords as he was lifted a good two feet off the ground, his hands drawn taunt against the ones cutting off his air supply. His face warmed, and he was certain it was getting red. He coughed, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"How does it feel, little boy?" Manny asked, his still slightly out of breath voice low with rage. "I told you I could cause you pain." Raz gasped, his face going from red to purplish-blue. From the other side of the room, he thought he heard his name being yelled, but he wasn't sure. His ears were ringing too loudly.

"Y…y-you…" Raz choked out between whooping breaths, his tight grip loosening as black clouds wound over his spotted vision. His lungs burned further, his legs were swinging in empty air, and something warm was dripping down the front of his jacket. He didn't know what.

"What?" Manny asked, his sarcastic voice fuzzy and hard to hear. Manny seemed to notice, as he brought Raz closer. "You got some final words to share?" Raz was quiet. In frustration, Manny brought Raz's face within a foot of his own, purplish-blue meeting red. His hands tightened, and Raz let out a quiet yelp. "Speak up!"

"Y-you… ah…" Raz's voice was barely above a whisper. "You're… a…"

"I'm a what? A _what_?" Manny shook Raz roughly, his history of failed anger management lessons poking through. To his great surprise, however, the kid started smiling slightly. Manny blinked, eyes widened, then shoved Raz forward until there foreheads were almost touching. Then, yelling right in front of poor Raz, "_Tell me_!"

Raz whispered the next word, grinning wider.

"_Sucker_."

Before Manny could even utter out a "huh?", Raz brought his foot up and, with all of his remaining strength, kicked the brown-haired man square in the jaw. He wouldn't have been able to reach that far before—not when held back by Manny's lengthy arms—but brought up so close to his face… The dude was sent sprawling.

Raz collapsed on the ground liked he was about to make a snow angel, gasping for air. Through the clouds in his vision, he could see dusty snowflakes spinning around in the air, caught up in the wind from the fight. He watched them grow steadily clearer, a smile on his face as his lungs filled up with air; beautiful, beautiful air. He blew out a careful puff of a breeze, watching the remarkably peaceful flakes spin around in it.

"Razputin, are you okay?" a voice finally asked him, its warbling tone concerned. Raz would recognize it anywhere—Mr. Cruller. Sure enough, when Raz cast his eyes to the side, he saw the old man himself rummaging through his pockets, probably in search of a spare Fluff.

"Peachy keen," Raz grinned, forcing his way into a sitting position. He paused, however, as the sudden movement send waves of dizziness crashing over his body, and waves of warmth over his stomach. Ford smiled back, but his was a little less carefree.

"'Atta' boy. Don't worry; we're almost done here. I'll have Alexander help you with your end of things." Raz pouted childishly at this.

"I don't need help, sir. I've almost got him. Just give me a few more minutes… ah!" He attempted to stand, only for a fresh layer of warmth to pass through his torso area. Confused, he glanced down, and was shocked to see a pool of blood staining through his already ruined sweater and jacket. One of his cuts must have broken open. Now feeling decidedly dizzy, Raz pinwheeled his arms a little, before finding support on Ford's arm. Grateful, he gave a weak grin.

"Thanks." Ford just nodded, and Raz detached himself from him. That done, he turned an angry glare to the just-getting-up Manny. As Manny slowly stood up, Raz brought his fist into his open hand, once… twice… three times.

"Clever little punk…" Manny spat, brushing snow off his white suit. Raz just readied himself (_Round two_!), waiting for his chance.

"You'll pay for that, you jerk," Raz responded, then shot forward, on the offensive now that he was angry. Nevermind that he was bleeding and gasping for air like a fish out of Lake Oblongata—he was ready to show them all.

"Woah!" Manny jumped back just as a furious, scowling Razputin swung at him. Raz bounced forward, thrusting a series of punches forward. Many missed, but a few hit and sent blood spraying. Manny was forced to sort-of sprint backwards, yelping in pain as Raz continued to lay on the beatdown.

"How does it _feel_, man? How does it _feel_?! Any last words?! _Answer me_!" Raz yelled, socking Manny over and over, until his hands were stained red and his shirt was oozing with lost blood. Meanwhile, Manny had still more blood pouring out of a broken nose and out of his mouth (which sported plenty of broken teeth), as well as what would surely develop into huge bruises… granted he survived.

With a final cry on both sides, Raz jumped back a pace, then promptly slammed his foot into Manny's chest. Manny let out a roar, then tumbled to the ground, flat on his back, breathing heavily. Now, for anyone else, that would have been the end of it—but not Raz. No, he had just gone through an attempted murder, losing his powers (probably forever), losing his friends (due to them thinking he's dead), losing his girlfriend, maybe (same), losing his job—_his dream job_—maybe his family, and his whole _life_. Yeah, he was a little upset. Keeping this in mind,

(_I'll never be a Psychonaut Dad Lili Sasha and Milla think I'm dead_)

he jumped onto Manny's stomach, winding him, and continued his onslaught. He… well, for lack of a better term, beat the freaking _shit_ outta' him. His face still contorted in rage, he punched Manny again and again; first the jaw, then the right cheek, the left cheek, his forehead, his mouth… Manny's hands tightened against Raz's jacket, attempting to pull the enraged child off of him, but Raz was having none of that. One of Manny's hands snaked towards Raz' face when he refused to be lifted; he bit it savagely, filling his mouth with the taste of pennies. People were screaming: friend or foe? He was pretty sure he joined in. Blood trailed down the side of his mouth, too much to be just from the bite.

"Razputin, _stop_!" someone yelled, probably an ally. _They_ just thought of him as 'kid'. _They… they…_

"You… stole… _everything from me_!" Raz screamed, his vision becoming rippled at the bottom. Cool water slipped down his warm cheeks, dyed pink by the time they dripped into the snow. He blinked rapidly, trying in vain to chase away the fuzziness. It didn't work, and that only made him more upset. "_Everything_! I hate you! I _hate_ you! Why can't you just leave… me… alone!?"

"Razputin—" someone began, but Raz cut him off.

"_Shut up_!" he cried. He reached up again, determined to pound that face into the ground flat, his eyes wild, but someone grabbed his wrist. Furious and distressed, more like an animal than a kid at that point, he yanked against the other person, but in vain. He tugged roughly until his arm hurt, shrieking obscenities at whoever was there, but they refused to let go. Below him, Manny let out a weak groan, then was quiet. Whether it was because he was dead or just unconscious, Raz didn't know. Nor did he care.

After a few more useless jerks of his arm, the person behind Raz spoke, her (_her_?) voice cold and tight. It wasn't familiar.

"You know, the rest of you fags already gave up. You might want to consider stopping, before I'm forced to break your scrawny arm. Just a thought." Gave up? _Gave up_? They were _winning_! What could _possibly _get them to surrender? _What_?

Confused and disoriented, feeling a little like a drunkard with a bad hangover, Raz turned around. Behind him stood a grinning woman dressed in a tight black outfit, holding his wrist in one hand and some form of rifle-like gun in her other. Raz glanced down, his vision fuzzy. On her hips she had on a pouched belt, most all of which held vials of dusty purple. She seemed to notice him staring, as she fingered one of the vials with a black-gloved hand.

"Like it? Our chemist made 'em, special for Psychofags. Calls it 'psitanium'. Do you know what happens when this junk hits the bloodstream?" Raz knew. That was one of the first things he'd been debriefed on before the mission.

_Two words: total blowout_. _The _IA _won't be able to restart for a few days._

"You remember the pink stuff. This is the purple stuff. Simple enough. Let this be a lesson to you." She twisted Raz's arm behind his back suddenly, and he hissed through his teeth. His vision was going fuzzier, and he was getting dizzy. He had lost a lot of blood… too much… "_Never_ underestimate a non-psychic." He felt his arm be released, and he fell listlessly, face-down, into the snow. His eyes were cloudy and blind; he closed them.

"Tie him up with the others. We're heading back to base," were the last words Raz heard, and then all he knew was blackness.

--

_DUN DUN DUN DUN DUUUUN! Looks like the group's in a spot of trouble! What will happen next? The only way to find out is if you REVIEW!_

_Oh, and yes, I know that this bears odd similarities to CD101. It's just a coincidence--these chapters were written before the recent ones of CD101. So there. Nyah. xD_


	13. Blacking Out, Blacking Out, Blacking Out

**_(The setting is a small room with wooden walls and floors. A dartboard, window, and air-conditioning system are on the walls, while a keyboard, two fans, a chest, a bed, and a shelf loaded to bursting with video games line the floor. PSYCHO is sitting on the bed. From beyond the window a mower can be heard, though faint.)_**

**_PSYCHO: (Looking towards the door, whispering) I've already explained this thrice now, do I have to AGAIN?_**

**_MYSTERIOUS VOICE OF MYSTERIOUSNESS: Yes. Do it. For the fans._**

**_PSYCHO: Fine, fine... (Turns to the AUDIENCE) Due to a vacation trip to Idaho, I haven't been able to update any of my fanfics for a week or two. But now I am back, and now things should return to normal, or better. In the meantime, help yourself to a salted snack or soft beverage. I shall be here, creating art. Or something. Also, be warned, this chapter contains much of the bondage (Not that way NOT THAT WAY) and the car crashes and the kidnapping and the Raz pickery. So... enjoy. I guess. (Turns back to the door) CAN I HAVE MY COOKIE NOW!? 8D_**

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Ford watched, his teeth gritted, as one of the still-conscious four henchmen bound and gagged the unconscious Razputin; wrists behind his back, upper arms, and ankles. Once done with the twisted activity, he slung Raz over one shoulder, his thin and gangly frame taking the weight surprisingly well. Or maybe he was just trained not to complain. With the kind of personality these guys had shown so far, Ford didn't think that was so unlikely.

After this, the henchman turned to the woman in the dark suit. She smirked, then turned to the other agents, all of which had gotten a similar treatment (only with sniper potshots of psitanium at them beforehand). She pointed at Alex, the one furthest to the right. He jerked involuntarily, but hid it well. However, she was just listing.

"Bowl-cut kid, military shrimp, old geezer, and crazy kid. Where's the Canadian?" She paused, then brushed it off. "Forget it. I'll find the coward later. We got what we wanted, and a bonus prize to boot."

"Why are you doing this?" Oleander demanded, and Ford and Alex winced at the cliché question. Meanwhile, while Oleander glared daggers at their captors, Ford attempted a telepathic link between himself and Sasha and Milla.

_Sasha… Milla… come in. Respond. We're in some _deep_ trouble here. We need assistance, ASAP. _Silence. Ford mentally cursed himself, struggling against the rope wound around his torso. To think, for all the amazing adventures and daring escapes he had been on, they could be stopped by a _non-psychic _sniper and some rope. And now they were probably going to be assassinated USSR style, their blood staining the floorboards of some

_(Coward coward ran away so Ford was left_ _alone that day_)

Canadian's cabin home in the middle of a distant, forested providence. And Agents Taylor and Aquato were both so _young_! To think that Alex would never sit nervously behind the wheel of his first car, or that Raz would never experience the horrors of puberty or even get out of elementary school… it hurt.

"Should I kill them off?" one of the

_(Ninjas)_

henchmen asked, turning towards Nathan, who had just strode up and laced his arm around the woman's shoulders (Ford was shocked to realize that the woman was actually quite a lot younger than he had guessed, once seen out of the shadows). Nathan seemed to be considering this, as Ford waited impatiently for the final blow. To his right, he could hear Oleander growling under his breath, and Alex let out just the tiniest whimper. It was obvious that they were both scared stiff as they waited for Nathan's consent, like the lever being pulled by an executioner.

Suddenly, much to all three of their surprise, Nathan shook his head. He was still grinning, sickly, though.

"Nah. Let them stew in defeat for a while. They're not going anywhere." Ford gasped, eyes wide. They were actually… letting them _live_? What were they playing at?

…Then Ford saw Raz, and he knew. They were letting him, Oleander, and Taylor live, because they weren't important. Even he, the infamous Ford Cruller, was just an extra variable now. No, they wanted the child who had somehow survived a fatal drug treatment, the one who cheated their death sentence. They wanted Razputin.

"Bastards…" Ford choked out, wishing more than anything that he had he powers back. Or that he had at least _something_, something to get him free and save his young protégé from the clutches of an insane band of psychic-haters, before the latter was forced into a painful and torturous, premature death.

_Not Razputin! Oh, God, not Razputin_! His mind was racing. He struggled against his bonds with newfound aggression, rubbing his wrists under they were chafed red and sore. Those dirty non-psychics seemed to find this morbidly entertaining, however. Nathan and the woman (who was actually a teenage girl, shockingly) both laughed as they walked, infuriatingly slowly, past. The henchman holding the motionless Raz walked behind them, carrying the bleeding child with as much delicacy as you would a bag of potatoes. Ford muttered obscenities at him, feeling utterly helpless and pathetic inside. For once, he was just a feeble old man, who couldn't even call upon his strength to save someone important to him. To save one of the children he had sworn to protect and guard, which he had raised with all the care and teaching of a kindly grandfather, until he slipped on the green sweater and took off into the jet. He had helped save Truman, and Ford was grateful for that, then took off to Thorny Towers to solve a mysterious case (something about curses in Chicago, Illinois) and had then been called off almost immediately on another mission—this one.

…Hard to believe his last words to Ford were "shut up".

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

Raz regained his lost consciousness slowly. It was all in a series of brief moments, which could have been (and probably were) minutes or even hours apart. He felt something hard pressing against his stomach, his feet dangling and head pounding. He heard someone yelling, later. It hurt his head. Then he was blessed: nothing but a long period of quiet voices, a steady hum, and soothing, slight vibrations underneath him. He blacked out sometime during that; he didn't know how long.

…_Still out…?_

…_Like a light. What a useless brat… _

…_What'll John think of him…?_

…_Probably kill him again. Once that guy gets one of his whacked ideas…_

…_Screw it. Let's just toss him off the road, let John keep kissing his own ass for a while…_

…_Ooh, look at me! I can kill a nine-year-old, all by mah-self! Nah, better not. He is keeping bread on the table. And everyone knows he's one of the fags, so he'd just read our minds and kill us before we even got at the door…_

…_Yeah…_

Raz groaned, slowly regaining consciousness. A pair of foggy green eyes opened and blinked, taking in the sights around him.

He was lying down in the back seat of what he guessed to be a semi, grey vinyl, rough. It was moving. There were two people in the front, who he recognized quickly as Nathan and the woman (who was actually a girl!) from before. He was also, he noticed with a barely-audible gasp, bound and gagged. He attempted to yell something indignantly at the pair, but all that came out were angry mumbles and his mouth filling with the taste of cotton. The girl turned around with a degrading grin to watch her prisoner, who was rubbing already sore and scabby arms fruitlessly.

"Well, look who decided to finally wake up. Comfy?" Raz shot her a venomous look. She just laughed, and Raz cast a pair of tired eyes downwards, sudden gloom washing over him as the initial fury quickly wore off. Even the entire weight of prepubescent, childish naivety couldn't hide the simple fact that he had never felt more screwed. He was powerless, immobile, in pain, the rest of the agents might have already been killed (_don't think about that don't think about that Raz don't you DARE think about that_), he didn't know where he was or how long he'd been out, and, to top things off, he was being driven towards his worst enemy for what was sure to be a slow and painful death. He never was one for pessimism, but… he was pretty upset.

_This sucks, _he concluded glumly, then froze as he felt something press against the top of his head. Struggling with all his pride not to let his fear show, Raz peered in what was up for him but left to the villains in front.

He saw another person. This one was male, maybe pushing twenty, no more. He had brown hair to match Nathan's and milky (it was at that word that Raz experienced an odd sense of _dejá vu_, which he quickly dismissed) brown eyes. His skin was a pallid color, showing that he had been without proper sunlight for some time. He wore a simple deep green coat and black slacks. He was also smiling at Raz, and not even in a sadistic, 'now-I've-got-you-right-where-I-want-you' way. More like a, 'howdy, friend' way. Raz just stared, his eyes big and inquisitive, then blinked.

Nathan noticed him looking (even though he was supposed to be driving), and rolled his eyes. After this, he turned his gaze back to the road, but he was talking obviously to Raz.

"Yeah, that's Sheldon. Don't bother with him—he's mute. Also a bit on the nutty side, thanks to you guys." Raz raised his head an inch off the vinyl, wishing he could ask, simply, "us?". However, Nathan seemed to get the hint, anyway. Or maybe he just liked to hear himself talk.

"He had some emotional problems a while back. Nothing too bad; just a few issues with his life that he decided to see a therapist for. He had the money. Well, some goody-two-shoes bitch decided to suggest to him an organization she'd heard about specializing in mental issues. Maybe you've heard of them: the Psychonauts. Well, to make a long story short, he got in, got some 'professional' to do some mental dusting; should've only taken, at max, a half-hour.

"…Let's just say it took a lot of convincing to keep him out of a loony bin after that. Dumb fuck completely messed up his system—crashed the motherboard, as it were. Can you believe that mother-loving _retard_ is still working? He didn't even get a damn demotion!" Nathan slammed his hand against the steering wheel; Raz flinched. Afterwards, a long silence filled the truck. Raz looked up at Sheldon again, even as the echoes of Nathan's yell died off in the group's minds. He wasn't smiling anymore, but instead looking out the window with a forlorn expression. Raz felt an uncharacteristic twang of pity. It must have been hard, going in for emotional issues and leaving insane because of someone else's accident.

Then, as if adding insult to injury, Nathan muttered something else. It was a simple, but blunt, sentence: "He's my brother." Raz swallowed, hard.

"Mff mffl," he spoke sincerely, which meant, "I'm sorry." He couldn't believe he felt sympathetic towards his kidnappers, and yet somehow, he did. Not enough to forgive them for what they were doing (it would take a lot more than _that_), but enough to give Nathan a grudging respect. For once, in spite of everything, Nathan seemed a bit… friendly.

"We've all got problems, kid. Why else would we be here now? Tiffany lost her fiancé to some of you in a gang fight—a norm doesn't stand a chance against a group of spoon-benders, even on the best of days. It just doesn't work." Raz struggled against his gag and, after some effort, managed to spit it out. It flopped down to his neck like a blue bandana (which it was, actually). He breathed a sigh of relief, then asked the question he'd been dying to ask.

"…So it's revenge, then?" Raz asked, his voice becoming bitter. "You killing off innocent psychics and kidnapping me—just because of a few other psychics that I don't even know? It's a good thing you're not stereotyping, then." Tiffany turned around, surprised to hear Raz's voice. She turned back, however, when she saw that Raz had not untied himself, but just spat out the handkerchief.

"Revenge is a bitter-sweet plant, kid," Nathan spoke philosophically. "You can't smell the flower without first pricking yourself on the thorns." Raz blinked, and even Sheldon turned his head towards the teen.

"Okay… what does _that_ mean? I'm no good at metaphors." Nathan shook his head, frustrated, and spoke up again.

"Look, it just means—" he paused, staring at something out of the windshield. When he next spoke, his voice was thin, with fear and shock. "_Shit_." Tiffany barely stifled a scream, shoving her hands against her mouth. Even Sheldon looked shocked, his face paler and eyes wide. Raz strained to sit up, trying to see what they were looking at.

"_What_?" he called out, impatient. "What is it?" He got his answer, of sorts, two seconds after asking. With a loud, screeching grate, something slammed against the side of the truck cab, denting the metal as if it were a candy bar wrapper. Raz felt himself be picked up by the back of his collar and pushed against the opposite side of the truck, far from the intrusion. It was Sheldon. With a slight grin, he turned back to the opposite side, his body acting like a shield in front of the all-too-vulnerable Razputin.

_Like a shield… or a pair of blinds_? Raz couldn't help but wonder, but stopped to let out a tiny "gah!" when the side was further battered. Raz could just barely make out, beyond Sheldon's rather thick frame, a light blue truck scraping against the side of theirs. The cab shifted to the side uncomfortably, and there was a pop and whoosh as one of the tires blew. Raz's fists tightened beneath their bonds, his face becoming the same color as fresh paper as his mouth fell ajar. Yeah, he was scared. The truck rammed into them again, and this time they didn't stop lurching back. Raz peered up the window above his head, to see where they were headed if they rolled over, but all he could see was cloudy, gray sky.

"_No! No! I can't control it! TURN, you mother-loving piece of… TURN! Oh, God, we're going to rollover_!" were the last words Raz heard, before the world turned into a metallic deathtrap, his vertigo exploded, his ears rang with screams and, for the third time that day, he blacked out.

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_To Be Continued..._


	14. To the Pink Blur

**_Well, it's no CD101, but for many, it's also awesome. Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment, I bring you... a new chapter of Color Pluvia! Oh, and there isn't a scripted pre-play before this chapter, as no one seems to really like those and they're remarkably hard to come up with. Maybe if enough people demand them back, but if no one cares, then you get NOTHING. Oh, except for a new chapter. NOTHING._**

**_Comments are more than welcome--they're a part of this balanced breakfast. They are also the leading cause of art, fanfiction development, new fanfic growths, and good fortune. Comments include side effects such as writer responces via PMs and ego inflation on both persons. Stop writing comments if you experience displeasure at the fanfiction or have a habit of flaming. _**

**_Comments--they're good!_**

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_Faces. They swim past his vision, tauntingly close, but too far away for him to reach. Some he recognizes—friends, family, guardians, his lover—others he does not. But soon enough, as all things must, the images pass, and all he knows is that he is cold and it is dark. _

_He looks around, cautiously, so as not to provoke any sudden movement from whatever may be waiting beyond the shadows. For something always is, he knows, something that is as dark and twisted as the shadows themselves, always waiting for the young boy to take a wrong breath or step too easily. He sees them, sometimes, when Ed has left to speak with Father and Mother is screaming downstairs because her medicine didn't take right and he can hear the hated leather belt hit skin even here, here in this terrible, icy room that is his own. And yet it is not his own, as it belongs to the vamps, who he can sometimes see flitter about in their ghastly way._

_They're a family. He can see the father vamp pacing about, his tie wrinkled and his pale, pale face sweaty as he turns again. The mother vamp is always sitting obediently at his side, her hands wringing against her corset as she watches him think aloud, speaking in words he cannot hear. The boy vamp—even younger than he—is running down the halls, playing by himself in lieu of his sister vamp, who is hanging in her closet by her mother's robe's tie, swinging even without a breeze. The vamp family doesn't know of it yet, but soon the boy will peer into her closet in search of a toy and see her and oh, how he will _scream_. It happens every time he sees the vamps, always the same way. First the father, then the mother will rush up the stairs, and the father will cover his son's eyes and escort him away even as the mother gently removes her child from the bar which ended her life and her head rolls because her neck is broke but the mother does nothing to stop it because she knows Lucille the vamp is gone, gone, gone…_

_But no, she isn't gone. Even as he watches, the doorknob turns, and he knows it is Lucille beyond it, her eyes still shut and her head still rolling on her shoulders, he knows it because she has come for him as she always does (even though he has never seen this before, he still knows these things)…_

_The girl at the door is both Lucille and not Lucille, somehow two people at once. The other is his lover, his Lili, his precious admired all done up in her usual pigtails, vest, and skirt. And as soon as he sees this the questions come: Who is he? Why is he thinking like he is? Where is he? How does he know all this?_

_The girl at the door points at him slowly, her angered and frightened face both Lucille and Lili, like one of those paintings that has two images depending on how you look at it. He holds up a hand, and is shocked to see that it is ghastly pale and translucent. Through it, he can still see a faint, pink smudge that is the girl. He knows what this means, he always does, but it still hurts him when she utters it at him, like a poison-laced dagger straight to his heart. That girl always had excellent accuracy._

"_Vampire," she hisses, and then she is gone, and there is nothing but a shadowed room. Even the vamps are quiet tonight. _

_After all, he is one of them._

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

When Raz woke up, he did not remember the odd dream, aside for a slight longing to see his lov—girlfriend again renewed deep in his stomach.

They say third time's the charm, and that rang true, even in Raz's newly developed fainting habit. The 'charm' being, though, that he was able to wake up and become aware a lot quicker than the first two times. Rather than gaze around stupidly, he instead spent a few moments regaining his composure and waiting for the memories of the recent incidents to come back. He remembered being captured by the bad guys, then that uncomfortable truck ride back to John, then the other truck ramming into them (on purpose, though why he didn't know). Finally, he remembered them rolling, his vision black behind closed lids, screaming as he was sure _third time's the charm, whoops, we're all going to die_…

But yet, he was still alive. He stared up into the sky, which was a dark gray now instead of cobalt black, which meant it must have been nearing early morning. The blizzard had stopped sometime between now and when he first found himself in Daniel's cabin, sweating and startled from his nightmare. Man, it seemed he'd been being startled a lot lately…

Slowly, Raz tried to move his arms, and found he could not. For a moment he was afraid he was still tied up, but a quick glance to his person proved that this wasn't the case. Instead, the reason he couldn't move was because a thick, green, winter coat had been pulled around his tiny, curled-up figure. The fluffy insides were warm and comfortable, and the coat was big enough (or he was small enough, depends) so that it stretched just an inch or so past his toes on one end and his purplish hair on the other. He recognized it, definitely, but his sleepy mind couldn't identify from where. Quickly dismissing it for other, more important matters, Raz looked around.

He was in a nondescript, snowy clearing, fringed with pine forestry. Somewhere behind and to the left of him, a path of trees going uphill away from him had been plowed over, their trucks and branches clawing out of the ground like rising zombies. Before this path lay another one, this time a huge scraping out of the snowy blanket, which lead to the remains of the (oil) truck. Raz stared at the broken oil carrier for a long while, his eyes taking in the huge number of dents and punctures with numb surprise.

"Guess there wasn't any oil in it… Lucky…" he mumbled, stunned. He knew; if that thing had still been filled with oil, he wouldn't have been alive to look at it. He knew enough about chemistry to know what happens when oil and a spark mix. Or was that gasoline…? Or kerosene…? Okay, maybe he didn't know so much about chemistry. Still, the important thing was he was alive.

Razputin untangled himself from the cloth and stood up slowly, his arms reaching to balance on something that wasn't there. His acrobatic skills kicked in, and he managed to haul himself to his feet without falling, even though it hurt. That done, he carefully shook the snow out of the thick coat; stared at it; shrugged; slipped it on. The woolly fabric was bulky and heavy against him, and it was much, much too big. The sleeves went down almost a foot past the tips of his fingers, and the hem was past his knees. It was almost comedic how big it looked, but it was _warm_. And, in his current condition, Raz wasn't sure he could go on under less-than-substantial settings.

_Krish. Krish. Krish. _Raz stomped through the heavy snow, kicking up clouds of it with fierce determination as he slogged. He wasn't sure how far he was from the cabin (or society in general), or if he'd be able to make it before… before something else happened. Still, he had to try. There wasn't much else he could do, what with the truck being totaled and all. It was either get moving, or wait for Nathan and Tiffany (assuming they survived the crash as well) to wake up and find him—and he did _not_ want that to happen. The odds were high that they'd either kill him out of spite or something, or try and salvage their kidnapping plot, only without Raz getting the chance to lie down. His wrists were already chafed; he didn't want another round of rope wearing them to the bone.

"Yeah, my life kind of sucks a little bit right now," he muttered to himself sarcastically, while slowly but steadily winding away from the wreckage. "Get lost in the woods and starve, or get kidnapped and tortured to death, provided the kidnappers don't get lost themselves. Decisions, decisions."

_All in a day's work for a Psychonaut_, he reminded himself. Yeah, except he _wasn't_ a Psychonaut; not anymore. He was just Razputin Aquato, child acrobat, ex-psychic, and now, Canadian Survivorman. Pretty soon he'd be talking to coyotes and learning to make meals out of elk hide. Then, when the tourists came, they'd find a crazy kid hanging from a tree, growling and clawing at anyone who got too close.

"Suddenly euthanization doesn't sound like a bad idea," he groaned, the possibility of insanity playing havoc with his frayed nerves. It was this that made him, even though it was incredibly stupid, start yelling. He cupped his gloved hands to his mouth, gathering his energy.

"_Sasha_!_ Milla_!" he yelled, his boyish voice echoing off the trees, answerless. "I'm still alive and stuff! I need rescue assistance, _if it's not too much trouble_!" A flock of some sort of bird (Robins? Blue jays? He didn't know) took off into the empty air at this, but otherwise the area was silent. Angrily, Raz kicked out at a snow drift, which collapsed in a powdery white mass.

"I hate Canada!" he yelled, perilously close to throwing a temper-tantrum right then and there. "Do you hear me!? I hate this… this… this _fucking_ country! Yeah, that's right! Everyone here can just go straight to _Hell_! I just wanna' go _home_! I'm _sick_ of this place!" He stomped through the white with renewed vigor, breathing out heavy, slightly-squeaky breaths between tightly clenched teeth. His sopping wet, black shoes plowed forward another three steps before he felt the need to yell again, so he stopped and did just so.

"_Sasha_! _Milla_! _You guys come and get me and take me home RIGHT NOW_! I'm going to count to three, and if you're not out here by then, I'll… I'll…" He stormed up a hill leading to the forest (and beyond it), too upset to care if his rants made any sense. For all he knew, Milla and Sasha were probably miles away (maybe a handful, maybe a hundred), searching for a

(_Just you say it Raz just you go on and say it you know it's true_)

body, or all the way in Whispering Rock telling Lili and the other campers (but mostly Lili) the horrible news.

He could see it so clearly, so much it was startling: Lili playing outside, enjoying an unnaturally warm September with the other campers (as camp didn't end until the end of September) and waiting for her boyfriend to come home. He saw Sasha and Milla step out of the jet, still in most of their winter garb. Lili would run up to them, of course, peering inside the jet impatiently for a face that wasn't there. Obviously, he'd be the first thing she'd ask for.

_Where's Raz_? She'd ask, crossing her arms stubbornly to hide her confusion. Milla would take one look at her and duck down, enveloping his girlfriend into a protective hug.

_I'm sorry, dah-ling_, she would say, apologetic and endearing. Sasha would stand to the side as usual, too shy (?) to join in and not sure if he would, were he invited. Lili would demand to know what had happened and what was Milla _talking _about, apologizing like that and all, and where was _her boyfriend_, God have mercy…

…But she would know. Lili was a lot of things, but she wasn't stupid. Even if she refused to accept it, at those three words, she would know: her boyfriend (God have mercy) wasn't coming home. She'd spend the rest of the day in fervent denial, trying to bully the other Psychonauts into taking her to Nova Scotia ("He wasn't _found_! There could still be a chance!"), but they wouldn't let her go. She'd eventually stomp off to her room, where no one could hear her throw some stuff and break some stuff and burn some stuff for a while, before sitting down and crying herself to sleep before the funeral…

"…And that's why I need to get to them as soon as possible," Raz concluded, the idea working wonders for calming him down. He'd never be able to get back home, unless he kept a steady head.

_Don't panic, and always bring a towel, _he smirked humorlessly, remembering one of his favorite books (yes, he reads). Well, now that he knew he wasn't about to start chewing-out some of the native birds, he supposed his first plan of action was to get to the top of this hill. Not only was he going up it anyway, but he supposed that he'd be able to see all kinds of distances from something this high.

"Don't worry, Lili, Milla, Sasha. I'm coming," he growled determinedly, walking uphill with all the resolve of a mountain climber. Though the snow was thick, Raz felt confident, and crested the hill within minutes.

Feeling rather victorious, he cast his eyes down the length of the other side, looking for any sort of hint as to which way he should go now. His logical mind doubted this—severely—but Raz pushed it aside.

…What he saw down there, however, made him scream. Yes, like a pansy. He screamed one word, a name, actually. However, it wasn't a scream of relieved delight, but rather one of horror and concern.

"_Sasha_!"

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_To Be Continued!_


	15. Sickly Green

**_((Spam Dump Final COMMENSE. And SCCP gets an update, too! YAY. I had some fun with this (not as much as with Scriptures, but definately some fun), and I think it shows. Although some continuality errors have been brought to my attention, and some typos have been noticed, and for some reason a whole freaking CHAPTER of this seems to have gone mysteriously AWOL, so I can only conclude that this is in serious need of a beta reader. So, if you guys know any cool ones, you know -mimes telephone with hand- hook me up. Benefits include being the first person to read the latest Psycho Fanfic (patent pending), a bonus art commission (Bribery? YES.), and getting to poke fun of my grammar and spelling and make me feel bad. However, we don't have a dental plan or protection service, and the commission is not nessisarily guarenteed to not suck. Especially if it's in color. I barely mastered keeping within the lines as it is._**

**_BACK ON TOPIC, expect a fistful of Drama in this chapter, and violence, and some Sasha and Raz bashing, though they're my two favorite characters (even if writing Sasha dialogue is like mental torture). Also, -makes another speech to get reviews-_**

**_FIC HO.)) _**

There, lying face-up at the bottom of the hill like he was sleeping, was a trench-coated figure, with familiar (now cracked) sunglasses and cobalt hair. He looked considerably worse for wear, and the fact that he didn't so much as twitch when Raz screamed his name made it even worse. His face was entirely red on one side, and the other was papery pale. His hair was mussed (unforgivable to him, before), and there were dark stains on his sweater, jacket, and a little on one knee. With his shades on, Raz couldn't tell if his eyes were closed… or frozen open.

"_Sasha_! _A-Agent Nein_!" Raz wailed desperately, stumble-running his way downhill. Even with the omnipresent threat of falling flat on his face looming over him, Raz made it to his mentor's side with little trouble. That done, he crouched down, examining the injuries with a scared eye.

He looked bad. There was a huge, gradually widening blotch of blood, terrifyingly close to his heart, staining his sweater, and his trench-coat was torn in spots. The eye hidden behind the blood pouring from the gash in his forehead was blackened, and more red oozed out from his nose, and just a hint out from between his lips, signaling internal injury. Raz swallowed heavily; a hard task, considering the lump forming in his throat.

"…S-Sasha? Are you okay…?" A stupid question, considering the circumstances; made worse when the German agent remained deathly still. Raz swallowed and tried again. "Agent Nein, say something! Where is Milla? What happened? Was it… those guys? Is Milla okay?" No answer.

Raz shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, then held up his right arm and shook it until the coat sleeve fell in wrinkles at his wrist. Afterwards, he bit against the edge of one gloved finger, yanking it off and revealing a pale hand. He pressed this against the wet wool of the sweater, gasping for air, not even noticing as the blood licked at his palm. It felt so cold, so wrong…

"Please don't die, Agent Nein," he found himself begging, his voice coming out shaky and weak. As Sasha Nein continued doing nothing, Raz peered down at his hand, desperate for some assurance that he was alive, then blinked as a wet droplet suddenly appeared on it. It wasn't raining, so that could only mean one thing. Sure enough, as Raz brushed his gloved hand against his hot cheek, it came away wet. He was crying.

"I'm so sorry… Agent Nein…" he whimpered, lifting up both hands to rub at his wet eyes, for all the good it did him (which was none). "Please, please, don't be mad… I came as fast as I could… I'm sorry… Don't die, _please_…" Now this was unfair. Pain, suffering, and kidnapping—he could survive those. He could not—_would_ not—survive without his idol! His guide! His freaking _hero_!

Raz was despondent. Without thinking, he buried his head into Sasha's chest, grabbing up fistfuls of his coat as he sobbed like a two-year-old. Between the weeping, he mumbled "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" over and over again, his only thoughts being how he was supposed to _possibly_ go on without Agent Sasha Nein.

Silence took over. Raz wasn't sure at all how long he was there, his head buried in wool, before his teary wails reduced to miserable, tired hiccups. A light layer of snow dusted his (for he now thought of it as his own) coat, and he wrapped his arms around his head, his eyes slipping closed for the fourth time on that hideous day (days…? He didn't know anymore). Well, maybe just a short nap…

Then, suddenly cracking open the silence, came a soft groan. Raz immediately jumped awake from his half-slumber, pulling his face away from the un-bloodied part of the sweater.

"…Razputin…?" a voice moaned, sounding low, tired, and creaky. Raz stared at Sasha, unable to believe it. Sure enough, however, the German moved his arms to push behind his back, and Raz was forced to scramble up. His expression was incredulous as Sasha struggled to sit up, succeeded, and looked at him with a look that was indeterminable because of his glasses. The two exchanged gazes for a while, then Raz gave a sad, relieved smile and a half-sigh, half-laugh.

"Reporting for duty, sir," he announced, then turned his head to the side and, in frustration, rubbed at one eye, where another tear had fallen. No! He was a _professional_—and professionals didn't cry, no matter what. And besides, he was ten, which was almost an adult. Only stupid, non-professional toddlers cried.

"I don't believe it," Sasha replied, but not in a 'so-I'm-just-not-going-to-and-that's-that" tone, but rather a "I-believe-and-I-want-to-but-it's-so-weird-I'm-going-to-say-I-don't-to-sound-sane" way. Raz just kept smiling, his relief cutting through his sorrow like a knife through butter. Sasha was alive, alive, _alive_, and—

"They really did kill me," he added to his original sentence, startling Raz out of his happy reverie. He quickly looked back over to Sasha, confused and a little worried. W-what did he say?

"What?" Raz asked, convinced he must be hearing things… Sasha stood up awkwardly, using a nearby pine for balance (there were some advantages to forests). He looked over to Raz and smiled shakily. Raz just blinked, and Sasha's face changed into sorrowful thought.

"I gather Milla will probably be in emotional agony… but I can't do anything about that." He looked around the forest, frowning, and changed the subject. "I was hoping I'd be out of this damn forest."

"You think…?" Raz began, his throat dry. Sasha turned to look at him (for not the first time, as both seemed determined to keep as little eye contact as possible). He looked… remorseful.

"I'm sorry, Razputin. I shouldn't have let you come along. I had no idea they were this powerful." Raz stepped forward, bringing himself a little closer to Sasha.

"What—powerful? They're not powerful! They just took me by surprise, is all." Sasha smiled again, putting a hand against Raz's helmet. Raz pouted, feeling degraded. However, from this close, he could just make out Sasha's eyes from behind the dark lenses. The dark irises were cloudy, but what that meant was unknown to him.

"For that, I'm grateful." And then his energy gave out and he collapsed, out like a light. Raz stared at his motionless figure for a little while, feeling a little awkward. Then, suddenly, he smiled a sort of maternal, mocking smile. Chuckling nervously to himself, he rolled his eyes at the sky, then leaned down and carefully pulled a section of Sasha's coat around the unconscious agent.

"Sleep tight, my little German angel," he crooned teasingly. Sasha didn't say anything, and Raz responded to himself by yawning. He realized that, despite having been knocked out at least three times, he was still tired. He must have only been out for a little while each time. Also, he noted, his body was quivering a little, but whether that was from leftover nerves or low blood sugar he wasn't sure.

"Man, I need a vacation," he groaned to no one in particular, putting a hand against his stomach and wincing as he felt his ribs poking out just a bit too much. He considered the benefits of passing out right there, but then looked over to Sasha again. The German had fainted right in a thick pile of snow, the now faintly pink stuff dampening his sweater and pants and the back of his head. Raz was no biologist, but he figured that was probably no good for preventing hypothermia. As it was, he gave a heavy sigh, then crouched down and grabbed under Agent Nein's arms.

"The things I do for my friends," he laughed to himself weakly, just before his face contorted into a strained grimace and he gave a rough heave back. Sasha slid painstakingly slowly across the frost, his peaceful face not even twitching. Raz glanced down at him, then towards the forest. Just below the trees, sheltered by their many branches and needles, was a long, thin patch of brown dirt, considerably drier and warmer than the fields so thick with snow. It was also about twelve yards away.

Over the course of twenty arduous minutes, Raz managed to tug and pull Agent Nein all the way to the closest patch, at great cost to his stamina. He frequently had to stop and catch his breath, mopping his brow with a frosty, gloved hand. Once, even, a particular yank the wrong way had caused a tender wound to suddenly tear open, which resulted in a squeaky gasp, a red spot pooling over the side of his already mutilated sweater, and him nearly fainting. He had had to sit down for several minutes, his face pink with the suffering and head heavy, before he managed to get back up and finish the job.

Finally, though, Sasha Nein was lying dry below one of the pine trees and Raz, feeling immensely satisfied, flopped down at his side in an attempt to sleep. However, the earth was still icy cold and hard, and sleep was impossible, even for someone as tired as he was. He tossed and turned restlessly, then finally gave an angry groan and sat up. Might as well do something useful.

Grumbling all the way, Raz stretched up and tore some reasonably dry branches from the inner workings of the pine trees around them. He made sure to take some of the dead ones, in the hopes that their lack of chlorophyll would help them make as good timber. These ones he stacked in the center and around the edges of a slowly-developing circle, filling it out into a cone with the green needles. In little to no time, he had made a fire pit.

There was just one problem: he didn't have any fire.

Raz thought and thought, watching the braches as if he could still light them by sheer will alone. They remained silent and smokeless, until the boy thought he might well scream in frustration. A fire was the only way he knew of to get warm, but if he or someone else couldn't start one…

_Someone else._

Raz turned to Sasha, biting his lip thoughtfully. Sasha knew pyrokinesis—he had used it in _True Psychic Tales_ #216, against a giant, hairless bear. But how to get him to use it while unconscious was where the problem lay. Hmm… maybe…

"Sasha?" Raz whispered slowly, watching the German agent expectantly. Sasha groaned tiredly in reply, and Raz took this as a signal to continue. He dropped his voice into a low, hypnotic drone, carefully inching into the wounded agent's subconscious.

"You are in… uh… a dark cavern, walking slowly through the many passageways in hunt of… of a… giant… mosquito monster… thing." Sasha groaned weakly, and for a moment Raz panicked, convinced this plan wouldn't work and he was about to head off into a sleep beyond hearing, when…

"Can't see," he grumbled.

"Oh, you have a torch with you. Anyway, you're going down a deep tunnel, following the growing aura of the bee monster."

"…Mosquito."

"Right, what'd I say? So you keep going, the aura getting stronger and stronger… the walls are practically glowing with aura-ness… when you suddenly see a giant overgrowth of massively flammable spiderwebs that have coated the path in front of you. Focus straight ahead and a little to your right and tell me what you're planning to do."

"Put my torch… against them and burn them." Raz winced.

"Your torch is lit by psychic energy or something. Not fire."

"…Why?"

"_Don't question me_. Just use PK!" A short, impatient silence passed, until, suddenly, the pile of timber abruptly caught aglow. Raz cheered loudly—"oh, _awesome_!"—then crowded towards the warm glow. Sasha, in turn, just snorted and sunk into a deeper sleep.

Time passed. Sasha remained unconscious for a long while, occasionally sighing or shifting a bit in a sudden spout of energy. Raz, meanwhile, fell into a tired, trance-like state, moving only to replace bits of wood on the fire from the canopy above whenever it began to sink or sometimes attempting to tear strips from any of their thick winter clothes to use as a bandage for Nein. Most of it refused to give, to his frustration, but he did manage to tear off some of the lining of his coat's pocket, which he used to sponge off the blood on Sasha's face with only the rare incident of having to pull away in disgust. The good news was, with the blood gone, Sasha's wounds didn't seem as bad as they had started off looking, so he hoped going without bandages wouldn't be _too _cataclysmic. Sasha would be up soon, anyway. He'd think of some way out of this mess.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Raz eventually sunk down beside the fire, watching the flickering flames and trying to think. He couldn't leave Agent Nein here, but he couldn't hope to drag him along to the nearest town. Sasha needed medical attention, but if he took off on his own he'd almost certainly get lost. And what if Sasha… dare he think it… died while he was gone? And what if he collapsed halfway there, in the middle of nowhere with nothing but woods for miles and a friend who wasn't even aware he was still alive?

"Don't be such a baby," he barked sternly at himself, sitting up abruptly and scattering snow everywhere. "Sasha would do it if it were you." And it was true. If it were Sasha, he'd already be at some Canadian gas station, phoning the Psychonauts to send an emergency medical copter and a wanted report for the Saints, so that every problem introduced would be flawlessly solved before Raz even woke up. He was just like that.

Okay, then, so that was it. Raz made his choice, though he still wondered if it was the right one. God damn it, he _would _find a phone, and he _would _call for help for Sasha! And if the Saints got in the way? Screw 'em! He'd beat down anyone in his way barehanded if he had to, but nothing would keep him from righting this one, awful wrong. Raz shot to his feet, excited and more than ready for the journey ahead—

The world twisted sharply to the right, and Raz gasped sickishly. His vision flared white, and he stumbled dizzily against a tree bark. A few seconds passed as Raz forced himself to breathe evenly, grasping his racing heart, and his vision eventually cleared and the vertigo faded. All was quiet for a moment, then Raz sunk very slowly to his knees, skin cold and clammy.

_I stood up too fast_, he noted. _That was all. I'm tired and hungry and poisoned and am going to have the cold from Hell tomorrow, and I stood up too fast. _Still, as he gradually straightened up and clutched his throbbing head, coughing lightly, he knew this wasn't the case, at least not entirely. He groaned. Of all the luck. All this running around in subzero weather in unfitting clothing, hungry and bleeding and exerted, had finally come back to bite him. He had gotten sick.

Chuckling bitterly, Raz pushed off from the tree, lurching forward with difficulty. His feet stomped determinedly against the snow as he trudged forward, eyes narrowed, hands tight against his fluttering stomach, and dark smirk against his features.

"Oh-ho-ho, no," he chuckled, "you're not stopping me _that _easily." A tense silence passed as Raz forced himself a few more steps forward, then paused. His finger suddenly shot upwards, and he craned his head up to smirk at the sky. "You hear me? Throw whatever you want at me! Poison me, take away my powers, get me kidnapped, put me into a car accident, make Sasha and Milla think I'm dead, hurt Sasha, and give me the flu, whatever you want! I came to this stupid place to stop the Saints once and for all, and so help me, _nothing _is going to keep me from that! I'm going to be a_ hero_, you understand!? I'll _never _give up!" Determined, he took a step forward, slipped on a sheet of buried ice, and hit the snow hard. He lay there for a long while, limbs quivering with exhaustion and angry tears springing to his eyes, before speaking, his voice muffled but still audible through the snow.

"I… I promised myself… when I came to Whispering Rock…" he struggled onto his hands and knees, trembling, "…that I wouldn't let anything get in my way of becoming a Psychonaut. I promised… that I'd work as hard as it took and then some… that I'd never give up… that I'd make my skills useful and rid the world of mental terrorists, protect free thought, and cure innocent victims of their insanity. I'm not… going… to give up… now." He sat up upon his knees, not even humoring a smile. His eyes were narrowed in rage, and his hands were wrapped almost painfully tightly against his stomach. Slowly, he unclasped one and pushed against the snow, straining to stand.

"I'll… never… give up…" he chanted bitterly, glaring at the ground. His arm shook drastically as he leaned against it, then finally gave. Raz gasped, then hit the snow again with a light _pluff_. This time, though, he didn't get up, but instead just lay on his stomach and shivered heavily. It was no use. He'd reached the end of his stamina, and he couldn't even stand, let alone travel to the nearest town.

Head heavy, Raz turned to watch Sasha. He hadn't moved an inch. Meanwhile, Raz had moved… two feet. He was just far enough to not feel the warm of the dying fire, but close enough to make his journey seem exceedingly pitiful. Well, okay, then.

"…I'm sorry, Sasha," he apologized, then, chin pressed against the icy white, Raz gave up.

-- -- --

_SAD ENDING. Don't worry; I SWEAR Raz didn't just die there (YOU WERE THINKING IT, I KNOW YOU WERE). He just went nighty-night for a bit. Now both guys are KO'd and no one knows exactly what happened to Milla, yet. Ooh, exciting. STAY TUNED._


	16. Different Versions, Same Blues

**_((Hi, guys! Me again. I was planning to answer my messages before this, but then pretty much half of Wisconsin got eaten by a blizzard, which left school and the after school activities which follow thus nonexistant and me with a lot of time on my hands, so... yeah. New chappie, inbetween a thousand other things I'm trying to at once because I'm a masochist. But that's another story, so have a... story._**

**_Oh, man. I am not too proud of this one at ALL. I like the writing at the end scene, I'll admit, but I fear I got way too wrapped up in 'OMG SASHA AND RAZ YAY ILU' to make good writing during the first part. Sorry, guys. I just love those two's relationship, even when I'm not being a fangirl and making it romantic (ONE TIME). This is probably because I hate Raz's actual dad with a fiery passion for a lengthy list of reasons (he's ugly), but I love love LOVE the concept of them doing father-son/mentor-student crap together. Also, Sasha's a pain to write, even if I have gotten drawing him down pretty well (not easy). So... yeah. I tried to lessen the angst with some humor, so... enjoy?)) _**

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Five hours dragged by, coating the pair in a gentle layer of snow and snuffing out the meager fire. Raz sank into a shivering, sickly state, his flu rapidly worsening while Sasha's own psychic powers gradually patched up his broken body. The ability was known as regeneration, a familiar skill to anyone bored enough to get up to level 90 while playing _Psychonauts_, and could be seen as little pastel blue sparks dancing across his many scratches and wounds, suturing scars and replacing lost blood. Raz, meanwhile, could only moan pathetically and curl up into a tiny ball in response to his own condition, his mind lost to swirling, hallucinatory dreams.

Finally, as the sun hit its climax in the sky and the snow began to sparkle with daylight, Sasha groggily felt consciousness return, this time permanently. His mind still swam sleepily with the remnants of dreams he'd had, but he shook them off blearily and sat up. Flakes fell off his body in great sheets, pluffing to earth in sparkling waves and forcing him to grunt and cover his eyes with a hand.

It was cold.

He was hungry.

His everything hurt.

Sasha took a brief moment off from returning to awareness to mutter a few embittered German swearwords under his breath, cursing everything from the country of Canada to the human body's requirement of the occasional nap. That done, he consulted his memories as to what had happened, hoping for a quick list of information he could handle.

Instead, his eyes widened and spine jerked as flashbacks assaulted his tired mind, reminding him of blood and fighting and ass-kickery—

--_A bullet sprang past Sasha's head, and he had just enough time to turn around before he was flung to the ground by a pair of robed assassins leaping down from the trees, holding the strangest weapons…_

For a moment he felt incredible panic and his head whipped around, hunting for the white-robed minions that proved so adept at taking down psychics—

_--"Hold him steady! HOLD HIM STEADY!" Sasha thrashed about against the claws pinning his arms against the ice, eyes and hands flaring blue. He could just barely see a syringe filled with glowing pink fluid shooting for the tendons tight against his neck, and then it bubbled and exploded in a pyrokinetic burst…_

--but there was no one there. The snow had blown away so much as a trace of the scuffle that had happened here, leaving only him to die in the cold like an abandoned orphan, to use a depressing analogy. Well, that, and a pile of deadwood and a green coat.

"Ach, they didn't have to leave their garbage behind, too," Sasha remarked sourly, then turned back to facing ahead as he strained to stand up on shaky legs… then about-faced in a combination of shock and horror, his mind finally having woken up enough to translate what he was looking at.

That coat, to put it simply, was wearing goggles.

Sasha knew he should just leave it at that and move on. Just because those idealistic _bastards_ had decided it would be hysterical to leave him a little salutations present didn't mean he needed to open it. He knew that was either Raz or some unfortunate small casualty that had liked the young boy's hat (though this seemed, at best, unlikely), and that was enough. He didn't need to see exactly what they had done to his brightest pupil in the process of killing him. He didn't _want_ to see Raz's corpse, rampant with wounds, rotting quietly in the snow. He didn't want that image burned into his mind. The logical thing was to leave now, while the body was still halfway buried in snow and hiding, before he did something stupid and dug it up in desperation to see some sign of life, only to uncover something hideous and dead.

But to hell with logic.

"Razputin…?" Sasha choked out, slinking slowly towards the unmoving child. Raz was quiet, and Sasha, throat tight with worry, crouched down in front of him, knees popping lightly as he did. From this close, he could see Raz's ashen face drawn in a tight, unwavering expression of pain, with his eyebrows corkscrewed upwards and mouth set in a gritted scowl. Sickened, Sasha reached out a shaking hand and carefully brushed the snow off him, revealing congealed blood coating his sweater and jacket and positively vicious half-healed slashes. For a second Sasha couldn't breathe, overcome with visions of sneering people mercilessly hacking away at Raz's skin as he struggled in vain against them, screaming for help as pain gripped his mind… Then reality graciously reasserted itself, and Sasha sighed.

"Focus. It's over now." With that thought in mind, Sasha cautiously flipped Raz onto his back, forcing himself not to look at the vast pools of red staining the boy's shirt and leaking feebly, even now, onto the coarse fabric of the coat he wore for reasons unknown. Raz just stared up at the cloudy sky, eyes firmly shut and expression apathetic towards anything but the unbearable pain he had been in. Sasha watched him, face frozen and body malleable like some morbid doll, and felt his heart pang longingly.

"Please, Razputin. Wake up," he found himself pleading, shaking Raz's icy shoulder as he spoke. It wasn't fair to leave their youngest member here, detached from the world and slowly decomposing into the dirt. Raz deserved a chance at life, not to die alone because some Bible-thumping psychopaths thought he wasn't _good enough_ to be psychic! In desperation, Sasha tried his ace in the hole. "Razputin, dammit, wake up or you're fired!"

All of a sudden, as if by magic, Raz shot up, whipping his head around to stare at Sasha with wide, cloudy, shocked, and very much _alive_ eyes.

"_What_!?" he squeaked, his voice raspy and weak, but desperate. Sasha stared at him in surprise, mouth agape… then slowly began to laugh. It started as a light chuckle, but soon enough he was holding his stomach and roaring with hysterics, tears of relief and joy spilling from his eyes. Raz just stared at him, halfway between horrified and confused. The perplexed kid, for a moment, even forgot about how sore and sick he was, too busy watching Sasha flail about with laughter, pounding the ground with his fist and gasping, with something akin to awe. Then it clicked, more or less, and his face fell into an indignant pout.

"_Stop laughing at me_!" Raz screeched, angry tears building at the edges of his eyes. "_I want to be a Psych—_" he cut off, at that moment, to collapse into violent, whooping coughs. His vision flared black for a second, threatening to knock him out yet again, but he thought of being fired and forced himself to stay awake. His coughs died into wheezing gasps, and he muttered the end to his sentence: "a… Psychona—_auh_—ut…"

At last, Sasha's energy died off, and he resulted to gasping and chuckling lightly as he wiped his eyes and sat up again. The huge grin he wore was unbecoming, but Raz was too busy holding his stomach and whimpering to notice. A few seconds later, after Sasha had calmed down (_I swear, that is the oddest statement EVER_), he took a chance and looked up at him hesitantly.

"So… I'm not… getting kicked out?" he asked quietly. Sasha looked down at him—how innocently curious and blunt he seemed—and bit down the urge to laugh again. While he was sitting here, pleading to every god he knew for Raz's very_ life_, Raz was only concerned with staying a Psychonaut. Why wasn't he surprised?

Sasha wrapped his arms comfortingly around Raz, letting the young boy rest his head against his chest and shiver. Any other day, the thought of consoling a child would have been met by him with reluctance and awkwardness, and consoling a sickly, sweating, germ-bathed one in the middle of Canada would have sent him running. In this case, though, he held Raz with barely a shudder and only the slightest thought of diving into the nearest snow bank to cleanse himself as best he could of Raz's more-likely-than-not-contagious flu. Now was not the time for personal phobias.

"Of course not. I'll even see if we can't get you a bonus once this is all over." At this, Raz pried his face away from the warmth of Sasha's coat to look up at him in surprise.

"A… what? But all I did was get up… when you told me to! I mean, you can teach _babies_ that. It's not that awesome… is it?" Sasha felt that familiar laugh tickle his throat, but managed to just chuckle lightly.

"You have no idea." And then he stood up, hugging an abnormally clingy Raz against his shoulder as he grunted and groaned sorely to his feet. Raz blinked, then accepted it and laced his arms tightly around Sasha's neck, nestling his head snugly against his shoulder and sniffling. Sasha, meanwhile, panned his eyes upwards, towards a small blue jay spiraling about in the sky. For a moment his eyes flared blue, and a third glided upwards from his forehead and connected with the tiny bird. All was silent, then Sasha nodded his head and blinked his way back to normal. He hiked up Raz, then turned westwards, frowning resolutely.

"I think it's time we got out of here," he remarked. Raz sniffled again, then spoke.

"Sasha?"

"Yes?" There was a pause, then Raz sneezed onto Sasha's shoulder. Sasha jumped in germophobic fear, eyes bulging and head reeling. Oh, no, he did NOT just do that! That was so... so... Then Raz groaned sickly, and Sasha begrudgingly forced himself to relax. It wouldn't do to get angry until all this was sorted out. He smiled tightly, tucking the huge green coat tighter around his ill student. Raz smiled gratefully.

"...Thanks. I knew I could count on you."

"…Any time, Razputin."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dan Northwood needed a better job—a trucker he was turning out not to be. Of course, he had been aware that he was not and never would be trucker material since he had taken on the job, but that hadn't stopped him. He was a landscape artist, after all, but had let himself be deluded with dreams of sitting on the plush front seat of a lovely red model, gliding gracefully on a smooth bridge over a sea flaring red with a majestic sunset. He imagined a beautiful sonata sliding out of his radio as he slid past sleek little Jettas and Beetles, waving casually to the friendly drivers before slinging an arm gently around the shoulders of a pleasant number that shared his passion for the arts and traveling. They didn't need money. The gas tank was full, and they could make it all the way to Mexico before pulling over and dropping off their delivery, spend a few scenic days by the ocean, and then lift up and be off again to another picturesque location…

…Instead, all Dan got was a dirty rustbucket laden with crusty fast food wrappers, an icy and snowed-over road in the middle of Nowhere, Canada, a radio that refused to play anything but static, and a first-class ticket to a night alone in the nearest cheap hotel with the other truckers.

With a light sigh, Dan flicked off the radio, killing off its annoying blare at last. That done, he sank back against the chair, taking in its stiff back and the way it made his back ache after the first few hours with dejected apathy.

It wasn't like Dan even _wanted_ to be a trucker, really. All he wanted was to live peacefully in a small neighborhood in South Dakota or something, making a quant little name for himself with his artwork. However, as his father had told him incessantly, no man worth his weight in testosterone would make a living by donning a beret and splashing color on paper. "Just take a freaking photograph," was what he had said. Besides, Dan was nearing fifty, far too old to quit his steady job and go dream-chasing. He'd had that chance when he was a teenager, and had blown it.

Dan leaned back, casually fingering the wheel. And a woman, eh? What happened to that traveling artist he could really find a connection with? Well, unless she also enjoyed leather jackets and Satanic tattoos to accent her Mozart and watercolors, he wasn't going to find her in his line of work. Even then, most of those women were with their hubbies, to use their own term, having already established a firm relationship sometime while Dan wasn't looking. It seemed the emotional types had better things to do than hang out around hotels, waiting for a skinny and nervous guy like Dan to pop into their lives.

Were Dan a psychic working for the Psychonauts, he and Derek would have doubtlessly gotten along on excellent terms.

As it was, Dan continued to drive listlessly down the empty Canadian road, and probably would have kept on driving listlessly down the empty Canadian road, were it not for the fact that there appeared to be a man and a small child standing smack in the middle of the road some yards ahead. Actually, the man was the only one standing, as the child was cuddled tightly in his arm, but he was still _in the middle of the road_… and appeared to be waving. Eyes bulging in disbelief—he was still five miles from the nearest town, after all—Dan slammed on the brakes, skidding to a sluggish stop and just barely avoiding colliding with the pair by about two feet. Snow flew everywhere, and Dan had the oddest feeling that something large seemed to be pushing against his car to get it to stop sooner, but the man refused to so much as budge until Dan's truck had stopped.

Without so much as a 'hello', then, the man put his hand down from waving frantically and planted it against the shoulder of the child, then bolted towards the side door. Dan was certain he had locked it, but he must have forgotten after all, as the man opened it easily and slid in without question, as if he belonged there.

"Look, I don't have any money—" Dan began, beginning to fear that these odd actions might be the setup to a setup, to use a pun, then froze as he saw the pair's condition clearly.

The child—a small boy with russet hair and a helmet cocooned in a huge green coat—was obviously ill, with milky skin and sweat beading on the side of his head that wasn't slick with blood from a deep head wound he owned. His arms were cloyingly tight against the man's neck, and were occasionally stained with red even through the thick winter wear.

Meanwhile, the man was only slightly better. His sunglasses were cracked at the edge, and his face was dotted with cuts. His sweater was almost completely red, enough to make Dan feel nauseous, but his arms were still entwined protectively around the boy and his mouth was scowling. Combined with his raven hair, pale skin, and dark clothing, he looked almost vampiric. Dan humored a brief notion that the pale child was his nearly-finished snack, toted around like a juice box, then his face melted into a look of shock and concern.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "What'd I miss?" It was hard to tell with the sunglasses, but Dan guessed the man's expression softened slightly at this.

"…An avalanche. I'll be alright, but…" he looked down at the boy with worry, and it told everything. Dan had already moved to shift into first gear before he'd made up enough of his mind to know he'd made it up.

"The closest town to here is a little place called… Maple Nest or something," he explained as they began to drive. "It's no metropolis, but it has the basics, at least. I take it that's where you're heading?"

"Does it have a hospital?" the man asked bluntly. Dan considered.

"…I think so, yeah."

"Then that's where we're heading." And so it was. The truck plowed effortlessly through the clouds of snow, the sun arced steadily over the sky, Dan drove expertly, and the unnamed man held his little friend close and prayed.

Dan had always felt he needed a new job, and for a surprising moment, as he glanced back at the strange pair he had picked up, he was surprised to find that the feeling was gone. For once in his life, he was quite glad indeed to be a trucker.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

_In the original cut of this chapter, Sasha and Raz were going to walk to Maple Nest. However, I considered, and thought that, no matter how coincidental it may be, hitchhiking might be a bit more likely than them managing to travel across the forest without dying. Plus, I like making OCs. 8D It's like a drug._

_Remember to read and review! Or else._


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